


Astronomy | Never Let It Fade Away

by Drarrelie



Series: Seven Shades of Magic [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Astronomy, Auror Trainee Harry Potter, Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary, Fanart Welcome, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Mild Sexual Content, Mystery, Near Death, POV Harry Potter, Physics, Podfic Welcome, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Sexual Content, Sick Draco Malfoy, Unspeakables (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26174011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drarrelie/pseuds/Drarrelie
Summary: If a dying enemy knocked on your door, would you tell them to fuck off or would you try to help them?When it happens to Harry, he is dead set on the former — until Malfoy falls unconscious right there on Harry’s doorstep and changes Harry’s life forever.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Seven Shades of Magic [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900732
Comments: 87
Kudos: 444
Collections: Seven Shades of Drarry





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Magic anthology](/series/1900732), the third in a series of collaborative projects within the [Seven Shades of Drarry](/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry) collective.
> 
> My beloved Shady Ladies, I cannot stress enough how much you all have come to mean to me. I’m so grateful for all that you are and all that you do — and I’m terribly sorry for exceeding our agreed word limit so profusely, but this story just refused to get out any other way. I hope you’ll forgive me eventually.
> 
> English is not my native language so please be kind if you find any errors I've missed. That said, I’ll appreciate any feedback you’re willing to give me — kudos, comments and recommendations are my primary life sources.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to — and are reverently borrowed from — JKR and associated publishers.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/2Qx1l1Y); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection. The seven songs belonging to this fic are intended to accompany one chapter each (prologue and epilogue included).

* * *

Infinite space.

Endless darkness, glittering with the twinkle of a million stars. 

I float through nothingness, liberated. Finally able to breathe again.

It would be easy: so easy to let go, to give up, to give in.

Maybe this will be the day that I do.


	2. Catch a Falling Star

* * *

_April 2002_

* * *

Harry tilts his head back and cards his fingers through his hair, allowing the hot spray to rinse off the residue of another trying day. Thursdays are the worst, offering nothing but practical classes all day, and the closer to the exams, the tougher the training. Harry’s entire body aches, sore from the morning’s physical combat workshop, and there’s still a throbbing pain in his hip from that Stinging Hex his duelling partner hit him with a few hours earlier. The battering water helps to relax his tense muscles though; massaging his scalp, his shoulders, his chest, sluicing down strained abs and thighs, clinging to dark curly hairs before hitting the tile and escaping down the drain.

The weekend cannot arrive soon enough.

However, first, there’s tomorrow’s test to worry about, on paragraphs thirteen to seventy-six of the Code of Misconduct. Harry groans. He’s got a long evening of studying ahead of him before he can allow himself to collapse in bed. Sometimes he envies Ron and his decision to join George at the shop instead of applying to the Auror program. If Harry had known back then how much studying it would entail, how hard it was going to be, maybe he too would have chosen another career. Or not. He’s always known this was what he was meant to do, and he’d be damned if he gave it all up now, with only months left until graduation.

Revitalised by the shower, Harry grabs a towel and makes a half-hearted attempt at drying himself off before stepping into his favourite comfy joggers. They’re well-worn and washed out, threadbare at the knees and soft as Teddy’s old baby blanket. Hermione has made no secret of her opinion that he should have thrown them out ages ago, but Harry stubbornly refuses to heed her advice. Not even after she bought him a new pair for Christmas. Not even when that pair turned out to be stylish Falcon’s joggers from the team’s premium collection. They’re perfectly nice, sure, but they’re nothing like these.

Hermione also thinks he should ‘do something about’ his hair, in other words: cut it. It’s longer now than it’s ever been before, but what she doesn’t seem to get is how much he appreciates finally being able to tie it all back into a bun during his training sessions, getting his stray locks out of his face and preventing them from clinging to his sweaty skin. The only time he’s prone to agree with her about it is in moments like this, when it’s dripping wet and all but impossible to dry properly. Drying it with magic is not a viable option, not if he doesn’t want the same hopelessly flyaway look a hairdryer provides, and he never has the patience to towel dry it enough to prevent stray drops of water from pooling at the nape of his neck and trickle down the length of his spine.

A gust of cool air from the window skims over his still-damp skin, making him shudder. The bed looks really tempting, warm and soft and perfectly rumpled. Harry sets his jaw and grabs the dark green t-shirt peeking out from between the folds of the duvet. He needs to study those bloody paragraphs, and before that, he’s in dire need of a decent cup of tea.

The collar catches on his glasses as he pulls on the shirt mid-stride, causing him to stumble and almost fall down the stairs on his way down to the kitchen. Hermione would probably advise him to get rid of this t-shirt too, seeing as it’s old and torn and several sizes too small for him these days. He won’t, though. Not the first item of clothing he bought for himself after the war. It’s too significant, too special, and Harry doesn’t care if it hugs his torso like a second skin. Better that than the baggy outfits he used to wear as a child. Dudley’s old hand-me-downs had always made him feel small and vulnerable and helpless; attributes that no longer applied to him. He’s a grown-up now — and a rather fit one at that, thanks to nearly three years of intense Auror training — and he’s far from helpless. He’s a force to be reckoned with, and this shirt helps him remember that.

The first knock nearly goes unregistered and Harry doesn’t even identify the sound until the heavy brass knocker connects with its struck plate for the third time. He stops in his tracks and blinks owlishly in the direction of the hallway. No one ever knocks on his front door. The few people who know where he lives never enter from the street. Why would they, when there’s a perfectly functional Floo in the study?

Figuring it’s most likely some Muggle wanting to sell him something he doesn’t need, he reluctantly postpones his tea cravings for another minute and goes to open the door.

“I’m not intere—”

Harry blinks. It’s not a salesman. It’s not even a Muggle. It’s…

“Malfoy?!”

His former school nemesis is standing on his doorstep, swaying slightly on his feet, looking absolutely terrible. He’s thin as a rake, all sunken cheeks and jutting bones, and his broad shoulders are slumping forwards as if they no longer remember the pride that once held up his regal posture. His fair complexion has lost every trace of life, its greyish hue contrasting starkly against the dark circles under his eyes, and the signature platinum-blond hair is hanging loose, dull and lifeless, missing the lustre that once had the power to turn heads wherever he went.

For a brief moment, Malfoy looks just as surprised as Harry feels — something that makes no sense at all, considering he’s the one standing outside Harry’s house and not vice versa — before his features shift, turning into something mostly resembling concern, or consternation. If Harry didn’t know better, if he didn’t know Malfoy better, he might have been fooled by the act. Now, it just makes him annoyed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demands. It’s been several years since Harry last saw the git, and he hasn’t missed him one bit.

“I— I don’t know…” Malfoy frowns, looking around genuinely bewildered. “I didn’t… I—”

“You _don’t know?_ ” Malfoy’s always been a fucking prat, but Harry has no memory of him being actually stupid. “How do you even know where I live?”

“A-Andro…”

“Andromeda.”

 _Of fucking course_.

Now he’s reminded of it, Harry knows Andromeda’s been in contact with her sister and nephew after the war. She did mention it to him once, years ago, but they’ve never come up in conversations since. Probably because Harry didn’t react all that well when she told him. It surely wasn’t his proudest moment, but then he wasn’t in the best of places at the time either. Come to think of it, he might have even lashed out at the poor woman. Just a bit.

Apparently, he’d been right, though, when he warned her about Malfoy, about him just acting contrite to earn her trust, about how he would exploit her credulity sooner or later just to get what he wants. Harry wonders what Malfoy said or did to make Andromeda divulge his address. Hopefully, she’s not too badly hurt.

“So, you managed to coerce my address from your aunt?” Malfoy flinches at the accusation and his reaction makes Harry bristle. “Congratulations. You’ve found me. Care to tell me what the hell you want before I alert the Aurors?”

Instead of answering, Malfoy groans and grimaces, pressing a trembling palm to his chest and hunching over as if in sudden pain. _Oh fuck. Wouldn’t that be the bee’s knees, Malfoy having a heart attack right here on the doorstep?_ Malfoy’s hand clutches at his much too big dress shirt, his bony fingers starkly white against the black fabric, and Harry notices beads of sweat forming at the hairline framing his high forehead.

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry blurts, despite himself. Not that he cares or anything. It’s more like a reflex. Someone’s in pain and Harry’s instincts kick in. Apparently, his compassion hasn’t gotten the memo about Malfoy being excluded from the list of people worthy of his worrying.

“No-nothing,” Malfoy wheezes.

It’s clearly a lie, but Harry can’t be bothered to call him on it. He longs for his tea. And even though he doesn’t long for his evening study session, he does long for it to be over and done with so he can go to bed. Fuck, but he’s tired. He doesn’t have the energy for this.

“What do you want?” Harry tries again, his patience growing thinner by the second.

Still hunching, Malfoy turns his pale grey eyes up to meet Harry’s. “I— I owled you…”

“I noticed,” Harry huffs, remembering the letters lying in his desk drawer, all but one still unopened. “Did you notice my reply?”

“Yes, I—”

“Did you ever read it? Do you remember what it said?”

“Yes, but…” Malfoy pauses and curls in on himself again, wincing. Harry really hopes it’s not a heart attack. He’s got enough on his plate as it is; he doesn’t need the hassle of having to deal with a sick Malfoy, too. Or, Merlin forbid, his corpse.

“Come on, Malfoy. You’re not a complete idiot. Surely, you know ‘stop bothering me’ is not a veiled invitation to come knocking at someone’s door unannounced?”

“No, I—” Another groan, a deep breath, another, and then Malfoy’s eyes are back on Harry’s again, pleading. “I need to talk to you.”

“Well, tough luck. I don’t want to talk to you. I already know what you want, and I’m not interested in any false apologies or insincere ramblings of regret and guilt.”

Malfoy’s knees buckle under him and he reaches out to steady himself against the doorframe. He really does look awful, but Harry wouldn’t be surprised if his condition is self-induced, brought on by some shady potion the git’s taken with the sole purpose of fooling Harry into obliging him.

“Look, Malfoy. I don’t have time for any of your fucking nonsense. Unlike you, I have a career to worry about, tests to study for, exams to pass. And you clearly need to go to St Mungo’s, so… Catch you later.”

Harry moves to close the door, hesitating only for a second before reaching out and grabbing Malfoy just as he sinks towards the cold concrete floor. Standing on his doorstep with an armful of unconscious blond prat, Harry can’t help snorting at the irony. Apparently, ‘later’ arrived sooner than he ever expected it to.

* * *

_2 May 2000_

_Mr Potter,_

_I am aware this letter will most likely catch you by surprise. Our relationship has never been an amicable one, and I do understand if you do not want to associate yourself with me after all that has transpired between us through the years._

_And yet, here I am, writing these humble words to you in the hope that you can find it in your heart to hear me out. Your opinions of me and my past actions are undoubtedly just as low as I deserve them to be, but I also know that you are a kind and forgiving wizard capable of compassion far beyond the ordinary._

_It is with that notion in mind that I reach out to you now, asking for a chance to meet. I have some concerns I would like to talk through with you, matters ideally addressed in person, and I would be most grateful if you could spare me some of your precious time out of your busy schedule._

_I will await your reply in earnest anticipation._

_Thanking you in advance._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco L. Malfoy_

* * *

_Malfoy,_

_What the bloody hell are you up to now, you blithering idiot? You don’t think I’m able to detect your fake arse-kissing just because you wrap it up in all those big words? What the fuck do you take me for?_

_I have absolutely nothing to say to you, except fuck off and stop bothering me._

_H.J.P._

* * *

Malfoy is a heavy man. Which is kind of strange, considering he’s little more than skin and bones. For a brief moment, Harry chalks it up to a Disillusionment Charm, figuring Draco’s scrawny appearance may well be a part of Malfoy’s deception, a magically induced optical illusion hiding the body of a normally built man underneath. It doesn’t add up, though, Harry realises as he drags Malfoy’s lifeless body inside and kicks the door shut. A charm like that is only able to affect the visual perception of its target, not their actual physique. And with his arms wrapped around Malfoy’s torso, there’s no denying the man’s skeletal form.

With some difficulty, Harry manages to manoeuvre the unconscious Malfoy into the sitting room. His former school nemesis may be an obnoxious git, but there’s also something seriously wrong with him, and Harry isn’t heartless. Not even when it comes to obnoxious gits, apparently.

Laying down his burden on the sofa, Harry takes care to arrange Malfoy’s body into a somewhat respectable position. The midnight blue cushions do nothing for the man’s sickly pale complexion, and anyone who saw him would think him dead if it weren’t for the faint breaths escaping his chapped lips in uneven wisps of air. Compared to his upper body, which is about as featherlight as a block of lead, Malfoy’s limbs are just as weightless as they look, and his ankles are so thin that Harry's fingers nearly meet as he reaches around and grabs them, lifting his feet to lie on the armrest.

It doesn’t take a Healer to realise that whatever has happened to Malfoy, whatever he’s been afflicted by, surely isn’t anything common. Some part of Harry, a part that has been dormant for several years, is reluctantly intrigued by Malfoy’s mysterious condition. The rest of him is fucking annoyed.

“I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you I don’t have time for this shit,” Harry grumbles, arms akimbo, as he glares down at the immobile blond. In this critical condition, Malfoy should clearly be nowhere but in the hands of a competent Healer, safely tucked away in a ward at St Mungo’s. And yet, he isn’t. He’s here. In Harry’s sitting room. Draco bloody Malfoy is fucking dying on his sofa, and for some inexplicable reason, this has suddenly become Harry’s problem.

_Why?_

What on earth would compel someone to go out when they’re in this state? Surely, no one would even consider getting out of bed when they’re this sick, much less go seek out the one person they’ve always hated the most?

“What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Harry’s question goes unanswered, of course, and he gives the unconscious man one last glare before turning on his heel and going into the study. His textbooks are vying for his attention where they lie on the desk, and even if studying is far from his favourite evening activity, he’d rather be getting started on those bloody paragraphs than having to bother his friends about this new absurd situation life has decided to put him in.

“’Mione?” he calls into the flames. “Please, Hermione? My darling, my dream, my boat — I need you…”

“Harry?” Hermione’s surprised voice comes from her kitchen, followed by her quick steps as she enters the living room and comes into Harry’s view. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“I need your help,” Harry says without preamble. “I have kind of a situation here, and I could really use a Healer right now.”

Hermione’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh no, what’s happened? Are you bleeding? Can you—”

“No, no one’s bleeding. I— “ Discerning the worried look on his friend’s face, Harry takes care to find his most calming voice. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione. I shouldn’t have said… It’s nothing like that.”

“No one’s injured? No one’s dying?”

_Well, as a matter of fact… Draco Malfoy happened to come by, and he might just be dying on my sofa as we speak…_

Harry winces. No, not bloody likely.

“Look,” he says instead, “You know how much I hate going into St Mungo’s. And since I happen to know a brilliant Healer, I thought maybe she could help me without having to alert the entire wizarding world to this… predicament.”

“I’m just a Healer Trainee, Harry,” she says, even as she blushes at his praise. “But if you think I’d be able to help, I’ll see what I can do...”

“Thank you, ‘Mione.”

“How urgent is it? Can I finish my dinner?”

_Oh._

“Sure.” _Fuck._ Harry suddenly feels like an inconsiderate arse. He hadn’t even thought about whether he’d be interrupting anything before calling. “Sorry, I— Go eat. I’ll put the kettle on and make us some tea. How does that sound?”

“Great. Give me twenty minutes.”

“Alright. See you in a bit.”

A few minutes later, Harry leaves the tea under a Warming Charm on the counter and returns to the study. Ever since Malfoy mentioned them, Harry hasn’t been able to get those letters out of his head. The first one had arrived on the same day as The Daily Prophet had reported on Malfoy’s release from his house arrest. Harry still recalls the ire he’d felt at being met with the git’s pointy face at the breakfast table.

He remembers sending a reply. A short note, asking Malfoy to stay away from him. And yet, there had been more letters after that, letters Harry didn’t even bother to open. Just seeing Malfoy’s pretentious cursive on the envelope had always been enough for Harry to scowl and throw the letter in his bottom desk drawer. He can’t say why he never just vanished them or threw them on the fire, nor can he explain why he’s never told anyone about them. Well, everyone knows that he hasn’t wanted to talk about anything Malfoy-related after the war, and after a few accidental slips at the beginning, they all quickly learnt to leave the git out of their conversations whenever Harry was present. In fact, apart from the occasional letter, Harry’s life has been blissfully free of everything Malfoy for the last three years and, in truth, he wouldn’t have minded if things had stayed that way for the rest of his life.

Retrieving the letters from its drawer, Harry examines them more closely. There are five of them, white envelopes in thick luxurious parchment, addressed with dark green ink in Malfoy’s elegant italic script. All but one are still adorned with an unbroken seal of wax the same colour as the ink, embossed with the Malfoy crest. One of the envelopes are thick enough to hold a veritable book, and for the first time, Harry finds himself wondering what’s in it.

Curiosity piqued, he fights his instinct to go for the thick one first, deciding if he’s actually going to do this, he should probably read them in order. Of the unopened ones, the oldest two are the slimmest, probably holding no more than one or two sheets of parchment each, and seeing as he still has about ten minutes until Hermione arrives, he decides to break the seal on the first letter right away.

* * *

_1 November 2000_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_I write to you again in the hope that you would be willing to take my earlier request in consideration despite your previous stance in the matter. As I am assured you already know, since my last letter, I have had the pleasure of meeting with several of your friends, and they have all been more forthcoming than I ever dared imagine when I first reached out to them._

_I admit your earlier reply left me not a little bit disheartened. You were the first person I contacted after… everything, and I feared your friends would all follow in your footsteps once I eventually gathered the courage to approach them. Fortunately, my apprehension was undue; something that surprised me to a great extent, especially in regards to two people in particular, Ms Granger and her fiancé. As the victims most affected by my errant ways — bar you, of course, my foremost adversary — it is safe to say I did not expect a reply more cordial than yours from any of them._

_(Don’t ask me why, because I honestly do not know, but before I sat down to write that first letter to you, I was actually convinced you would be the one most willing to offer me a chance of redemption. Delusional, I know, but it’s the truth. That’s why you were the first one on my list. For some reason, I thought you of all people — who, in a way, were just as trapped in the war as I was — would be open to listening to what I had to say and be able to understand me better than anyone else.)_

_I ask you to reconsider your earlier response to my request. I do not know what your friends have told you about me and the conversations I have conducted with them, but feel free to ask them about any and all of it if need be for you to reach a decision. I hereby give them all a blanket permission to reveal to you any personal matters about me they think would help my case in your eyes._

_Thank you for your time and attention. I look forward to your reply._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco L. Malfoy_

* * *

“ _You’ve_ been in touch with _Malfoy_?”

It’s not how Harry had planned to greet Hermione as she steps out of the hearth, but the words just tumble out, unwarranted.

“Well, hello to you, too,” she says with a frown. “You’re welcome for abandoning my evening plans and coming over on such short notice to help you with your very important and urgent _Healer_ needs.”

“Yes, of course,” Harry says, mortified. “I’m sorry, I—” He looks down at the letter still in his hand, shaking his head to get the nonsensical message out of his head long enough to give his friend a proper welcome. “Thank you for coming over, ‘Mione. It really means a lot.”

“What’s that?” Hermione asks curiously, taking a step towards him.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Without giving Malfoy’s letter another glance, Harry deposits it on the desk next to the others and hastens to stand from his chair. “Come on. There’s tea waiting in the kitchen.”

* * *

“So he just happened to drop by your house and pass out here in your sitting room?”

Hermione is standing next to the sofa, eyeing Malfoy’s unconscious form with her head tilted to one side. The thinking-wrinkle between her brows is deep as a canyon, and her pursed lips move from side to side as they always do when she’s trying to solve a tricky puzzle.

“Er… no, not exactly.” Hermione raises her gaze to give him a strange look. “I mean… he didn’t pass out here. I— I carried him inside.”

“You…? As in, ‘he passed out _outside_ ’?” That look is hardening, turning accusatory, and Harry finds himself unable to hold her gaze.

“Yeah,” he mumbles as his eyes flit aimlessly over Malfoy’s vacant features, “on the doorstep.”

“You mean to tell me that whole exchange you just told me about took place on your doorstep? That you didn’t invite him in even _after_ you noticed he was in pain?”

“Well… I—” Harry fiddles with the drawstring of his joggers as he tries to set words to his reasoning. Being chastised by Hermione is never a pleasant experience, especially when you’re tired and aching and one hundred per cent innocent. “How was I supposed to know he wasn’t bluffing? I mean, look at him. It has to be fake. Have you ever seen him looking this… dull?”

“Harry,” Hermione scolds, “he’s sick. Of course, he doesn’t look himself.”

“How do you know he’s really sick, though?” Harry counters. “You haven’t examined him yet?”

He doesn’t care that he most likely sounds like a petulant five-year-old. He can’t even count all the times he’s been told off for acting reckless and foolhardy. Now, for once in his life, he’s been cautious — not inviting a renowned troublemaker and lifelong enemy into his home — only to get another lecture?

Hermione doesn’t answer him, but her glare burns on his skin, turning his cheeks hot as she draws her wand. Harry watches her cast a long series of diagnostic spells, making the air around Malfoy turn every colour of the rainbow in succession. Hermione frowns and takes notes, and mutters and frowns a bit more, shaking her head as she seems to become more confused for every new result she scribbles down in her notepad.

“He’s changed, you know,” she says eventually as she plops down in her favourite armchair and unshrinks a large tome she’s been carrying in her jeans pocket. She sounds tired, and her voice is so gentle Harry can’t help feeling soothed by it despite her words. “He’s not the same as he once was.”

Harry sighs, looking over at her from where he’s leaning on the mantelpiece. “But how can you know that, ‘Mione? Even if he wanted to change, I doubt he ever could.”

Hermione doesn’t look up from her book, but Harry notices her jaw clenching. “He has,” she says softly. “He told me, and I believe him.”

“He _told_ you? Just like that? And you believed him?”

“Yes.”

Harry walks over to sit in the chair opposite Hermione, letting his head fall back against the worn upholstery, closing his eyes for a moment. “When?”

“Hm…” Hermione shakes her head at whatever she’s reading and turns a dozen pages to another section in the book. “About a year and a half ago, I’d say.”

“About a…?” _What!?_

Harry gets a distinct feeling he’s dreaming. Maybe he did succumb to the pull of the bed, after all? Maybe he fell asleep after the shower and never went downstairs? That would certainly explain a lot.

“How did I not know this? Why haven’t you told me?”

“Because…” she says, marking her place in the text with a finger before raising her eyes from the book. She’s got her patient face on now, the one she adopts whenever dealing with Teddy in one of his moods. “Because you made it perfectly clear you didn’t want to talk about him. Because you kept freaking out every time someone even happened to mention his name. Maybe we shouldn’t have indulged you in this hang-up of yours, but we did. Because we care about you, because we want to see you happy, and because we just didn’t have the energy to argue with you about it. You’re quite stubborn sometimes, you know.”

The corner of her mouth quirks into a slight smile.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry sighs, feeling his fatigue weigh down on him, making his body sink deeper into the cosy chair. “We?” he adds once he’s replayed her words in his head. “Who are ‘we’?”

“Everyone.” Her answer sounds like an apology; as if she’s begging his forgiveness.

“Everyone?”

“Yes, Harry. Everyone.”

Harry’s head is spinning, incapable of making any sense of her words. Hermione returns to her book and doesn’t say anything else for a long time, and Harry lets her read in peace. His eyes keep drifting back to where Malfoy lies sleeping on the sofa. He looks so frail, you’d think he’d break in half if caught by a strong enough gust of wind. And… muted. Not that Malfoy’s ever had much colour — skin pale as moonlight, eyes grey as stone, and hair so blond it always seemed to glow in the dark — but at least he used to look alive and healthy most of the time. Granted, he’d looked haggard in sixth year, but that had its own reasons. This is something else.

Harry guesses he should fetch his textbooks from the study and try to get through those damned paragraphs before his brain switches off for the night. But he doesn’t. He probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway, not as long as Draco Malfoy is lying… right there, just a few feet away. Harry’s been able to ignore his existence for years, and then he’s just… there. On Harry’s sofa. Looking bloody awful. Vulnerable. Defeated.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione says after a good while, “I have no idea what’s happened to him. His symptoms are most peculiar, and I can’t find anything remotely like it in here.” She closes the book and shrinks it back to a more portable size.

“So, what do we do now?” Harry’s not sure he wants to know the answer. If he were to decide, he’d opt for a hot date with his bed waiting for him upstairs, preferably with Malfoy gone far enough away to never find his way back. Somehow, he knows that’s not likely the answer he’s going to get.

“Well, _I’m_ going to go into work and speak to a friend of mine.”

Harry frowns, suspicion crawling up his spine. “Who?”

“Jenna. With the state he’s in, I’m fairly sure he must have been suffering for quite a while. If we’re lucky, I might be able to persuade her into helping me get ahold of his records. There must be some clues in there that can help us figure out what’s going on.”

“All right.” It actually sounds like a decent enough plan, and for the umpteenth time, Harry thanks his lucky star he has Hermione for his best friend. “And what about him?”

“He’s all yours, Harry.” She winks, rising from her chair.

“Wait, what…?”

“Don’t freak out, okay? Just keep an eye on him for now. Be here if he wakes up. And if he does, don’t behave like a pillock. You can do that, right?” Harry can only nod; her stern look leaves no room for argumentation. “Good.”

Harry drags himself up from the comfy chair to follow Hermione to the Floo. He feels the stack of envelopes calling him from the desktop, but he stubbornly fights their allure as he waits for Hermione to leave before returning to their secrets. Leaning against the doorframe, he watches Hermione grab a pinch of powder from the ceramic bowl on the mantle. He almost misses her words when she speaks, her back to him as she seems so address the grate.

“He sent us letters, asking for a chance to meet. He wanted to apologise. For everything. We all got one.” She glances at him over her shoulder, and Harry catches the sadness in her eyes. “I’ve always wondered why you never did.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Hermione steps into the green flames and leaves for St Mungo’s before he’s able to gather his wits.


	3. Per Aspera Ad Astra

Walking over to the desk, Harry retrieves Malfoy’s letters and returns to the sitting room. His guilty conscience is grumbling at the back of his head, but it’s impossible to say if it’s due to the ignored textbooks left in the study or the stack of unopened envelopes in his hand.

“What the hell are you up to, Malfoy?” he asks the unconscious man as he slumps back down in his chair.

_He wanted to apologise_ , Hermione’s voice echoes in his head. _He sent us letters. We all got one._

Harry got one, too. He just never mentioned it to anybody because he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d thought he was the only one Malfoy had written to, but apparently not. _We all got one_.

Harry turns the oldest letter over in his hands, brushing his fingertips over the impeccable cursive spelling out his name on the front, circling the broken seal on the back with the pad of his thumb. He glances at the blond on the sofa, watching the dark circles under his eyes, his hollow cheeks, his chapped lips parted to allow for his shallow breaths.

_He wanted to apologise. For everything._

Hermione said Malfoy’s changed, but who’s to say he hasn’t just gotten better at deception? He’s a Slytherin, after all; cunning is in his DNA. And sometimes, gullible Gryffindors are very easily fooled.

Returning his attention to the envelope in his hands, he takes out the letter and unfolds it. It’s dated almost two years ago, on the anniversary of the final battle.

“No wonder I was in a bad mood when I got it,” Harry grumbles before skimming its content with Hermione’s words still ringing in his head.

_‘…understand if you do not want to associate yourself with me…’ ‘I have some concerns I would like to talk through with you, matters ideally addressed in person…’_

The luxurious parchment, the perfect penmanship, the fancy words, the formal phrasing — it’s all so pretentious, Harry can’t help but roll his eyes. Surely anyone would have written it off as a ruse. No one talks like that; no one but upper-class ponces with insecurity issues, like…

Harry glances at the unconscious man again, then back at the letter in his hands.

‘… _you are a kind and forgiving wizard capable of compassion far beyond the ordinary…’_

No. No way Malfoy was being serious when he wrote that. Harry huffs a laugh and reaches for the second letter. Rereading it now, it makes more sense than it did an hour before. Yet, even with Hermione’s secrets revealed, it raises more questions than answers.

_‘…your friends… have all been… forthcoming…’ ‘You were the first person I contacted…’ ‘…convinced you would be the one most willing to offer me a chance of redemption…’ ‘…able to understand me better than anyone else…’_

_He wanted to apologise. For everything._

What if Hermione was right?

* * *

_22 April 2001_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_I believe I owe you an apology for last night._

_Whatever you may think, I honestly had no idea you would be at The Fiery Dragon yesterday; ergo, my presence at said establishment was not intended to coincide with yours. Nor had I been following you, or ‘scheming’ to encounter you, and it was certainly never my intention to ‘ruin your evening’. I was merely there to socialise with an old friend over a passable glass of wine, and when you entered, I was just as surprised to see you there as I reckon you were to see me._

_I’m aware this doesn’t excuse or justify my behaviour. No matter the reason for my being there, I should have known not to approach you. I’m still not all that sure why I did, only that I’m genuinely sorry for doing so. I had wished for a chance to talk with you for so long, and then seeing you in real life as you walked into the pub… I almost didn’t believe my eyes. You looked so happy and healthy — more so than I’ve ever seen you before — and for some reason, your cheerful demeanour had me, wrongfully, thinking you’d be amenable to endure a few minutes in my company._

_I am sorry for disturbing your evening, for making you uncomfortable, and for being inconsiderate of how much you still seem to loathe and despise me. I had nearly forgotten how far apart we’ve always been, and I shouldn’t have presumed your feelings towards me would’ve altered any since we last met. How could you know I’m no longer the prejudiced boy I once used to be? I still haven’t had the opportunity to convince you to the contrary._

_I’m concluding this letter with the hope that you will consider accepting my apology regarding last night’s incident, and that you will one day find it in your heart to accede to my request to meet with you. I still hold some important matters that I’d prefer to address in person, if possible, and after seeing you again last night, these matters now seem more important to attend to than ever before._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

* * *

Harry remembers that night. He’d been out with some of his classmates, celebrating after an exam. He doesn’t remember which one, but it had been a crucial one. One they’d studied for for weeks.

He’d been standing at the bar, ordering another round for the table, when Malfoy had popped up beside him, as if from nowhere. He’d asked for two glasses of some pricey red wine that must have been French considering the gibberish rolling effortlessly off the man’s tongue as he’d talked to the barkeep.

‘… _I was merely there to socialise with an old friend over a passable glass of wine…’_

Harry frowns at the man on the sofa, shifting in his seat as he recognises the unease stirring in his gut. Why he had assumed that the other glass of wine had been intended for him, Harry has no idea. He’d been so affronted by the off-handed gesture, that Malfoy had just taken it for granted Harry would join him, that Harry would want to drink his fancy wine.

‘… _your cheerful demeanour had me… thinking you’d be amenable to endure a few minutes in my company…’_

The humble self-deprecation certainly doesn’t sound anything like the Malfoy Harry used to know. If he could only deduce if it was sincere or not. Harry’s instinct surely knows not to trust a single word coming from that man, but even disregarding that fact, it’s hard to take anyone who uses words like _‘ergo’,_ _‘coincide’,_ and _‘accede’_ seriously. Not to mention, ‘ _Dear Mr Potter_.’ Merlin.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Harry doesn’t expect an answer from the unconscious man, but he can’t deny the curiosity prickling down the length of his spine.

Before he has time to open the fourth envelope, the one thick enough to contain a slim book, Hermione returns. Harry doesn’t bother to hide the letters this time, figuring he should have told her about them ages ago anyway. Well, better late than never.

“You didn’t even open them?” is her first reaction after finding out. Her eyes are wide and her brows half-way towards her hairline.

“I did!” Harry says. “I— I opened the first one.”

“But not the others.” It’s not even a question, just a general statement. Harry tries not to acknowledge the condescending tone in her voice. “Did you at least send him a reply?”

“Yes, I did,” Harry says, not caring that he sounds like a petulant child. “Not that it seems he ever bothered to read it.”

“Of course, he did, Harry. Why would you think he didn’t?”

“Because I told him to fuck off and leave me alone,” Harry snaps. “Does _this_ look like ‘leave me alone’ to you?” He gestures towards the letters and then at Malfoy.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says, shaking her head and making the stray curly locks framing her face sway from the movement. “This stubbornness of yours…”

“What about it?”

“It’s just…” She sighs and takes a seat in her chair. “Listen… I’ve talked to him several times over the last few years. He’s not who you think he is, and I’m positive you would see it too if you only let him show you.”

“I just don’t get why he can’t leave me alone,” Harry mutters. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Maybe not,” Hermione says, offering a faint smile. “But I’m rather sure you’d want to hear what he has to say.”

Harry doesn’t want to think about what Malfoy would want to say to him.

“Okay, so how did it go at St Mungo’s?” he asks instead. “Any luck with Jenna?”

The question seems to catch Hermione by surprise, effectively diverting her from her sudden pro-Malfoy crusade.

“Yes, and no,” she says, pursing her lips.

“How so?”

“Yes, because I managed to access his file. No, because it didn’t help much.”

“It didn’t?” Harry deflates into the cushions of his chair, only now realising how much he’d hoped for Hermione to come back successful. “It didn’t mention anything about… this?” Harry finishes lamely for lack of a better word.

“Well… sort of,” she says with a shrug. “It’s classified.”

“ _Classified?_ ” Harry’s voice bounces off the walls, making Hermione flinch. _Shit_. He hadn’t meant to be so loud, it just… happened. “Why?” he adds a bit more quietly.

“I don’t know,” she says, clenching her fists in her lap. “It only said his case is referred to… the Department of Mysteries.”

“ _What!?_ ”

“You need to bring him to the Ministry.”

“But I don’t—”

“You _have_ to, Harry,” Hermione insists. “If you don’t, he might die…”

“I—”

He doesn’t want to go to the Ministry. He wants to go upstairs and collapse in his bed and dream of a world where Malfoy is not lying on his sofa, unconscious, maybe dying. It’s fucking late o’clock in the evening, and he has a fucking test tomorrow, and he has no fucking energy for this. And yet…

“Okay,” Harry hears himself saying, much to his own surprise.

Malfoy’s case is classified by the Department of Mysteries, and Harry can’t help being intrigued by this. He tries to fight it, but he already knows it’ll be in vain. He needs to know what’s going on. He has to. He tells himself it’s the enigma of Malfoy’s condition that has piqued his interest, but deep down he knows it isn’t. There’s no use denying Draco Malfoy’s uncanny ability to always attract Harry’s curiosity.

“Good,” Hermione says. “There’s an emergency Floo address you can use; Ostium Misteria. It’ll take you directly to the Department of Mysteries.”

“How do you know?”

“It was mentioned in his file, together with the case’s codename: Astra.”

“Astra?” Harry echoes, confused.

“Yes,” Hermione says, rising to her feet. “Promise me you’ll take good care of him, Harry. And please, read those letters.”

“Sure, I’ll— What?” Harry jumps from his chair as Hermione moves towards the study. “You’re not coming with me?”

She gives him an apologetic smile. “I wish I could, but I need to get back home. Ron and I kind of had plans this evening, and he’s waiting…”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Harry cringes at his own thoughtlessness. “Of course. Go home. I’ll take him. But… How do I…?”

Harry’s gaze flits to the sofa, just in time to see Malfoy stir awake. He looks just as drained and dreadful as before, but at least he’s slowly coming back from the dead. Blinking, squinting against the light, wincing quietly, he moves his arm to brush away a lock of hair from his face.

“W-what happened?” he croaks, “Where am I?”

“You passed out.”

At Harry’s clipped tone, Malfoy lifts his head to look at him.

“Potter?”

“The very same.”

“Oh, fuck.” Malfoy sighs and lets his head fall back on the cushion with a thud.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Harry scowls. “Fuck, indeed.”

Behind him, Hermione clears her throat.

She can’t see his eye-roll, but that doesn’t mean she’s not aware of it. “Come on, Malfoy,” he says, stepping closer to the sofa. “We need to get you to the Ministry.”

Warily, Malfoy pulls himself up to a sitting position and turns to place his feet on the floor. His gaze flits curiously around the room, taking in Harry’s private life; the framed photos on the wall, the bottles in the liquor cabinet, last night’s discarded dishes on the sofa table next to the…

Harry quickly reaches for the letters and stuffs them in his pocket before Malfoy realises what they are. When he turns back to look at Malfoy, the man is trying to heave himself up from the sofa, only to fall back onto the cushion when his balance fails him.

“I don’t think I—” Malfoy says quietly.

“Oh, for Circe’s sake,” Harry mutters, walking over to Malfoy and offering him his hands. “Come on, I’ll help you up. Just…” Malfoy’s pale hands almost disappear in his, slender as they are compared to Harry’s large calloused ones. They’re so delicate, Harry’s almost afraid to break them; fragile, like dry, ancient parchment; and cool to the touch. Or maybe that’s just Harry being warm, as usual.

It doesn’t take much effort for Harry to get Malfoy on his feet. Just a light tug, really. Yet, it leaves him breathless, making his lungs burn — until Harry remembers how to breathe. Malfoy is standing so close, the inhale smells of him, tastes of him. Harry has to turn away just to get his brain working again.

“The Floo’s right in there.” Harry gestures with one hand while reluctantly reaching an arm around Draco’s waist. If the man can’t even stand on his own, he’s probably not able to walk unsupported either. “Let’s go. Good. Easy now. Watch your step. Yes, there you go.”

With one arm wrapped over Harry’s shoulders, Malfoy stumbles across the room and into the study. Harry encourages him, silently wondering how the hell he managed to come here in this state in the first place.

“Ostium Misteria,” Harry roars into the green flames, holding Malfoy close as they’re whisked away to the Department of Mysteries.

Considering the late hour, Harry’s not surprised no one seems to be around to greet them as they step out of the Floo at their destination. Harry looks around, taking in the empty room. For some reason, when Hermione had told him about being able to Floo directly to the DoM, he’d imagined they’d end up in the dark, circular Entrance Chamber with its blue flickering light, its doors, and rotating walls. Clearly, his assumptions had been wrong.

This room is not circular, for one, and it isn’t all black either. It’s a perfectly ordinary rectangular room with light blue walls and a rich, grass-green carpet. In the centre of the arched ceiling hangs a huge crystal chandelier whose prisms cast multicoloured reflections over the room like confetti. The short wall behind them is predominated by two separate Floo entrances, and at the opposite end of the room are four comfy-looking armchairs placed around a small coffee table.

“Come on, let’s go sit down,” Harry suggests, eager to get his hands off of Malfoy’s gangly frame as soon as possible.

Malfoy nods and stumbles alongside Harry as they slowly make it across the room. And it’s a good thing Harry supports him, because Malfoy’s wobbly knees nearly give out under him several times over the short five-ish-yards walk and his balance is way off, probably due to the weight anomaly Harry had noticed earlier.

Malfoy passes out again as soon as his body lands on the floral upholstery of the closest chair. Harry rolls his shoulders and stretches out a kink in his back before going over to the unmanned reception desk they’d walked past on their way to the seating area.

There are no signs on the counter, and no bell to alert anyone to their presence. Harry has just enough time to fear they’ll be sitting here all night before a kind, female voice breaks the silence in the room, making Harry jump in surprise.

“Welcome to The Department of Mysteries,” it says. “Codename, please?”

“Er,” Harry says eloquently, bewildered by the efficient bluntness. “Astra?”

“Thank you,” the voice says. “Please sit down. The Unspeakable in charge of your case will be with you momentarily.”

“Er, okay?” Harry says, even though he’s fairly sure the greeting witch has already switched off their communication.

Harry returns to the chairs, plopping down in the one across from Malfoy and heaving a deep sigh. He’s restless and fidgety, drumming his fingers on the armrests as he studies Malfoy’s unconscious features. He wishes he had something to do to take his mind off the blond git, but he’s left his textbooks at home and there’s nothing to do in here but wait. He wishes the place had some magazines or something to leaf through while waiting, but the coffee table in front of him doesn’t offer anything more distracting than a bouquet of daffodils in a plain vase.

It takes almost five minutes until he remembers the letters in his pocket, but when he finally does, he’s got the fourth envelope in his hands within seconds. Despite its thickness, it doesn’t contain a book, like he’d guessed it would. It’s just another letter, pages and pages of parchment covered in Malfoy’s elegant cursive. It's dated about six months ago, and Harry is submerged in its content before he’s even finished the opening paragraph.

* * *

_1 September 2001_

_Would you mind too much if I called you by your first name? You probably would, but considering what I’m about to tell you, no other name or epithet I could come up with felt right. You must believe me when I say this feels really strange for me too — I don’t think I’ve ever referred to you by your first name, at least not to your face — but they say there’s a first time for everything, so…_

_Harry,_

_Can you believe it has been ten years since we both boarded the Hogwarts Express for the very first time? I don’t know about you, but gathering from what I’ve heard about your circumstances in the home of your Muggle relatives, I presume you had been looking forward to that day just as much as I had._

_Sometimes, I long for those days, back when life seemed so much easier. The world was not a spectrum of greys, but pure black and white. People were either good or bad, and I never had to question anything; no beliefs, no values. Nothing. The expectations laid upon me were simple: be an obedient son and make your father proud. It sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? At least I thought so, back then._

_But the world was never black and white. As it turned out, people were not simply good or bad. None of us was. And my father wasn’t always right._

_Out of all this, that last truth was actually the hardest one for me to accept. I couldn’t see it, simply because I didn’t want to. You see, all through my childhood, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy was the optimal paragon, the one person in my life worthy enough to admire and respect, to look up to and obey. Long before I learnt anything else, I learnt to follow his rules, to heed his advice, and to trust him implicitly. I was taught how to become the perfect Malfoy heir — by striving to take after him in every way — and more than anything else, I aspired to my father’s approval and yearned for his rare praise._

_Living in Malfoy Manor, in the middle of nowhere surrounded by acres and acres of nothing but rolling green hills, also meant you never had to meet with anyone who didn’t share your worldview. You never had to argue your opinions or encounter any viewpoints that differed from your own. You weren’t even aware there were other opinions or viewpoints to consider, that there were people in this world who didn’t share the beliefs and values your father had once presented you with. In my perfect little world, Father was king, Mother was queen, and I was the perfect little prince, living in perfect happiness with my owl, my horse, and my suite full of toys. I didn’t have many friends, only the few children of my parents’ friends that were invited to the Manor on occasion. Theo, of course, and Greg and Vince. I also remember the Greengrass girls coming over a few times, but we didn’t share any common interests so I never bothered to befriend them properly._

_So, why am I telling you all this? To be honest, I’m not really sure about that myself, but I feel like I owe it to you; to try to explain how I became the prejudiced and ignorant boy you used to know, to try to explain the background to my wrongful actions and appalling behaviour back then. During my house arrest after the war, I was given plenty of time to reassess my life. With two years in solitude and nothing else to do, I had time to go through and analyse all those moments that made me who I was, that defined my fate and ultimately landed me on the wrong side of history. For some inexplicable reason, there seems to be something within me that craves the possibility to tell you about what I found, to tell you that I can see it clearly now; how wrong it all was, how wrong I was._

_This is not an attempt to excuse any of those actions or choices I made back then, nor am I trying to put the blame for any of it on anyone but myself. And I certainly don’t want your pity. As I would have told you if you had ever agreed to meet with me, my only wish is to apologise for all the harm I’ve ever caused you and the ones you love, to tell you how much I regret the way things turned out — from that very first time, ten years ago today, when I, in less than a few minutes, managed to make such a bad impression on you that you chose to reject my offer of friendship, thereby causing the first crack in my up-till-then perfect little world._

_I still remember that day so clearly. I had just popped a large piece of pumpkin pasty in my mouth when I first heard the whispers. They said Harry Potter was on the train — yes, The Harry Potter — and before I knew it, I had pasty crumbs in my windpipe and was coughing like a madman. You were in a compartment near the end of the train, they said, together with one of the Weasley boys, and I just knew I had to go and rescue you. Yes, I know how it sounds, but that’s the honest truth. I knew you were new to the wizarding world, and I ‘knew’ the Weasley family were not people one should socialise with. I, on the other hand, was the perfect prince of Malfoy Manor. Surely, you’d prefer my company to any others’. You just didn’t know it yet._

_Looking back at it now, I realise how foolish I was, how entitled and arrogant I must have come across. But at the time, I truly didn’t. I was so sure you’d be grateful for my offer of friendship. My parents had always told me anyone should be thrilled to be my friend. And I so wanted to be yours. Ever since I first heard about you, ever since I first learnt you existed somewhere out there and that we were the same age, I ‘knew’ that no other friendship of mine would ever matter as much as ours._

_‘I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.’ That’s what you said, those exact words. I know, because you can’t imagine how many times those words have echoed in my mind ever since. Initially serving as kindling for my disdain and hatred towards you, later as a bitter reminder of just how wrong I had been, the mantra of my regret and self-loathing._

_Your rejection that day hit me out of nowhere, like a rogue Bludger, stealing the breath from my lungs and stopping the beat of my heart. I had never experienced anything like it before, and my instinctual defence was, of course, attack. It always was, those days. Attack and threats. My pride was being threatened, my authority questioned — and in front of my friends, too — I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there and let you humiliate me like that._

_Lately, I’ve been able to review that encounter (as well as our first one at Madam Malkin’s) with enlightened eyes. I’ve been able to imagine how my words and actions must have been perceived from your point of view, and I can only apologise. Wishing it undone would be pointless, as would coming up with alternate ways in which I ~~could~~ should have behaved. I’ve already tried it. It doesn’t work. That way only madness lies. Did you know regret can eat you from within? Carve its way through your body and soul until there’s nothing left but skin and bones?_

_I didn’t._

_For some reason — and we may as well call him by his name, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy — I grew up believing that I would never have to regret anything I ever said or did. He never did, and since I aspired to be like him, I wouldn’t either. I would always be on the winning side, and I would always have a clear conscience. Guilt, regret, and uncertainty were for the weak and worthless. I was a proud and powerful Malfoy, too superior to ever have to bother with ignoble matters like that. As I said, life was so much easier then._

_The illusion eventually shattered, in one single blow, that day my father was taken to Azkaban. My perfect role model, my rock, the man incapable of failure, had failed on a mission for his Master and been humiliated in the worst possible way, treated like a common criminal and sent to prison posthaste. I wasn’t privy to any details about that night, was never given any explanation for what happened to him, but my aunt made sure to tell me you were somehow involved in his arrest. Oh, how I hated you right then, hated you for crushing my perfect life, for tearing my family apart. My mother was devastated, and I was the one who had to take care of her, trying to comfort her and be strong for her even as I myself was breaking apart._

_Not even two weeks after turning sixteen, in my father’s absence, I suddenly found myself the acting Head of the family. This was exactly what Father had prepared me for all my life, what I’d been trained for since before I could walk. I considered it an honour, a show of trust, and I thought I was ready to take on the responsibility._

_I wasn’t._

_About a week later, he moved in. I refuse to utter his name, even in writing, but I’m sure you know who I mean. What did you call him again? Riddle? Anyway… He, and that horrendous snake of his, simply entered the Manor one day and declared he’d be living in the west wing from then on, proceeding to order our house-elves about as if he owned the place. I never dared question him. I just let him do it. What else could I have done? I’ve always been a coward, surely you know that, especially in the presence of authorities. And if there was ever an authority superior to my father, it was him. Riddle was the only person I’ve ever witnessed my father bow before; I just knew I had to do the same. It never occurred to me to do otherwise._

_I’ll never forget the first time I was summoned by him. I was so nervous, so scared to accidentally do or say something wrong and upset him. I kept my poise, of course, the one that had been imprinted in me since forever, but on the inside, I was shaking like a leaf. Severus had told me all about his unrivalled Legilimency skills, and I focused so hard on my Occlumency shields as I entered the room that I nearly forgot to kneel like I had been instructed._

_He welcomed me as the new head of the Malfoy family, and I beamed with pride at the acknowledgement. He told me about his dissatisfaction with my father, and his hopes that I would prove myself to a higher standard. I promised him I’d do my best to meet his expectations, to do whatever it would take to rectify my father’s mistakes, and he seemed pleased to hear that. He then told me my family owed him a loyal follower, a replacement for the one he lost in my father, before informing me that I would be bestowed with the Dark Mark by the next full moon._

_To say that I had no choice would be a lie, but it sure felt like it at the time. I realise now that I did indeed have options, and maybe deep down I knew it already then. I could have been brave and straight-out refuse — an option that would’ve most likely caused my death by AK not a minute later — or I could have played along and bided my time, waiting for a chance to escape and run away into the great unknown, knowing he would still find me sooner or later, knowing the ensuing punishment would be so much worse. None of those options was ever more than fantasies, though, not for a coward like me. My self-preservation has always been the one trait in my arsenal that prevails when all others abandon me. Additionally, my father’s expectations of me, if you remember them, were still the same as they had always been: be an obedient son and make your father proud._

_These are all reasonings I’ve conducted later on, after the end of the war, when I finally got some time to sit down and think in peace. At that moment, though, bowing before him, my initial reaction was (and I’m truly ashamed to admit this) surprise, pride and triumph. I had never heard of a minor being invited into the ranks before; I hadn’t expected to be allowed to take the Mark at barely sixteen. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was being treated like an adult — not a boy, but a man — and the feeling was glorious._

_After the private audience, I had to constrain myself from rushing through the corridors towards my mother’s rooms. You know, a Malfoy Head never rushes anywhere, they walk with grace and dignity at all times. This is so ingrained in me that I usually never spare it a thought, but that day, I was so excited, so eager to tell Mother the great news, that I repeatedly had to remind myself to slow down._

_If your rejection ten years ago was the first crack to my world, and my father’s arrest was what made it shatter, my mother’s reaction that day was what made it truly tilt on its axis._

_If there’s anything you should know about Narcissa Dorea Malfoy née Black, it’s that she never shows a hint of emotion unintentionally. Ever. Except at that very moment, when I told her what he’d said to me._

_It wasn’t much, just a brief flash of pure horror ghosting over her features, but it was impossible not to notice. Not for me, who’d known her all my life and recognised its significance. I had expected her to be happy for me, to be as proud of me as I already knew my father would be once the news reached him, and instead she… Merlin, Harry, she looked like I’d just told her I was dying._

_Without saying a word, she rose from the settee and walked over to the window, looking out over the grounds. I was so confused I didn’t know what to do, so I remained in my seat, waiting for… anything, really. Any clues as to what was going through her head._

_I know I wasn’t meant to hear it, but I did, even as I pretended I hadn’t. ‘Damn you, Lucius,’ she said under her breath. ‘Damn you.’_

_I’d never heard her criticise her husband before, never heard her say a bad word about him. But apparently, even this stoic woman had her limits, and as it turned out, her limit happened to coincide with what I had just recognised as the pinnacle of my life so far. The notion made my head spin and my stomach turn. Something was clearly not right in the world, but I had no idea what. What was wrong? What had made her react this way? What did she know that I didn’t? As if conjured from nowhere, my mind was suddenly full to bursting with a thousand questions I had never asked myself before that point. Questions I had no hope of sorting out in time for my initiation which was less than a week away._

* * *

“I’m so sorry it took so long…,” someone said, yanking Harry’s mind back into the cheery waiting room with the force of a Bludger. Harry looks up from Malfoy’s neat penmanship to see a woman coming out of the Floo in a cloud of ash. “…but I had to find a babysitter for Teddy and…”

Harry blinks when he recognises the witch who’s currently brushing soot off her shoulders.

“…Harry wasn’t home.”

“ _Andromeda?_ ”

Andromeda stills and turns to him with an inscrutable smile. “Ah. So this is where you are? Interesting…”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks. “Did Hermione call you?”

His voice sounds strange to his own ears, and there’s an annoying soreness in his throat that wasn’t there before.

“No, Why?”Andromeda frowns walking over to the seating area. “Did she find that recipe for me?”

“No, I—”

Harry falters as Andromeda stops by Malfoy’s chair and observes his lifeless form with a look of concern on her face. She doesn’t seem at all surprised by his dreadful state; as if Malfoy looking like a skeleton is perfectly normal; as if he’s always looked like this. He hasn’t. Harry remembers a time when he’d looked vibrant and alive, healthy and athletic and sparkling with charisma. Compared to the cocky boy in his memories, this man is little more than a shadow. Just thinking about it makes Harry’s stomach churn, and if Andromeda doesn’t bat an eye seeing Malfoy like this, it’s not a recent development.

“How long has he been out this time?” Andromeda asks without taking her eyes off Malfoy.

“Er… About an hour and a half, maybe? He woke up a while ago, just long enough for us to get here, and then he passed out again pretty much as soon as we arrived.”

“Oh dear, it’s getting even worse.” Andromeda kneels in front of Malfoy and takes his hands in hers. “Let’s get you inside, my boy. If we’re lucky, there’s still time.”

She turns to glance over her shoulder at Harry. “Will you help me with him, please?”

“Er, sure,” Harry says, confused. “But shouldn’t we wait for the Unspeakable before…?

“You did,” Andromeda says, rising to her feet. “And she came.”

“She—” Harry looks around, finding no one besides the three of them. “When?”

“Harry…” Andromeda’s eyes twinkle with amusement and there’s a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“What?” And that’s when the Sickle finally drops. “ _You?_ You’re the…”

Andromeda extends her right hand. “Unspeakable Tonks, at your service.”


	4. A Sky Full of Stars

Apparently, Andromeda has been working in the Department of Mysteries since before Harry was born. Harry doesn’t even try to wrap his head around this fact at the moment; there’s a limit to the amount of confusion and revelation one can process in one day, and Malfoy has single-handedly managed to fill Harry’s daily quota already.

“Draco?” Andromeda says softly, reaching out to place a hand on his bony shoulder. “Draco, wake up,”

Malfoy stirs, his golden eyelashes fluttering, his relaxed features distorting into a grimace as he takes in his state and his surroundings. Harry watches him warily, unsure about how the man will react to his presence, but when those pale grey eyes turn to look at him they’re softer than Harry’s ever seen them.

Harry swallows. _Should I say something? Or—_

“Draco?” Malfoy’s gaze seems to linger on Harry for an eternity before he turns to the woman beside him. “I know you’re exhausted, dear, but do you think you can manage to get across the chamber?”

Malfoy blinks slowly but doesn’t offer his aunt any further response.

“Just across the room? You know you’ll feel better as soon as I can release you from gravity.”

Harry has no idea what she’s talking about. Not that it’s any of his business. Besides, he figures he’ll have time to ask Andromeda later, once Malfoy is safely tucked away somewhere and the chaos wreaking havoc in Harry’s mind has calmed down.

“Come on.” Andromeda smiles encouragingly. “You know it’s not that far; just through the doors. And we’ll help you, all right? Yes, Harry too,” she adds as she notices Malfoy’s gaze flit over her shoulder in Harry’s direction.

Malfoy’s nod is so minuscule Harry almost misses it and once again, he’s struck by how drained Malfoy looks, how lifeless — he looks like the walking dead, or maybe as if he were in the middle of the process of transforming into a ghost.

Harry and Andromeda help Malfoy to his feet, and with one arm around his slim waist, Harry steers Malfoy’s unsteady steps towards a plain, handle-less door hidden in the wall opposite the reception desk. Malfoy has one arm slung over Harry’s shoulders and they’re already halfway across the room when Harry realises he’s clutching Malfoy’s otherwise dangling hand. _For stability._

The door leads to the dark Entrance Chamber, with its circular wall and identical black doors. It’s just as eerie as Harry remembers it, and after their time in the brightly lit waiting room, he has to strain his eyes to discern anything but the shimmering blue light from the wall-mounted candles between the doors. It gets even darker once the door behind them slides shut, and then the rumbling begins and the wall starts rotating.

When everything stills, Andromeda leads them to one of the doors and pushes it open. With Malfoy’s body still pressed against his side, Harry follows her into the room, unsure of what to make of the sight meeting him.

It’s almost as dark as the room they just left, but instead of the blue candle-light, this room is lit up by what seems to be thousands of stupefied fireflies floating in the air. It’s impossible to estimate the size of the room since it’s too dark to see any walls — not even the one behind them, Harry realises with a start as he turns around to look at the door they just came through, finding nothing but yet more darkness and floating fireflies for as long as his eyes can reach.

It’s breathtaking.

“Where are we?” Harry murmurs, instinctively keeping his voice down as not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere in the room.

“In the Universe Hall,” Andromeda replies. “I hope you’re not prone to vertigo.”

At her words, Harry naturally makes the mistake to look down at the floor. Or, what should have been the floor, had it been visible. Instead, there’s more darkness and firefli— _No…_ Harry gasps as realisation strikes. It’s not fireflies; it’s stars — thousands and thousands of stars; spread out in eternity all around him.

He can still feel the floor underneath his feet, and yet he nearly loses his balance when he looks up again, stumbling backwards and nearly falling on his arse as the added weight of Malfoy’s limp body follows him.

Now that he thinks about it, Harry vaguely remembers Luna saying something about a ‘space room’ the last time they were here. This must be what she’d been talking about. Harry takes another look around, for the first time noticing not only the dizzying multitude of stars, but planets in orbit around them, and moons, and asteroids, and comets, and… There are galaxies, and nebulae, and supernovae, and Harry is stunned by the awe overtaking him.

“I can take it from here,” Andromeda says, coming up on Malfoy’s other side and relieving Harry from his burden.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Don’t worry.” Harry furrows his brows, a little concerned about leaving the woman alone to manage the heavy load of Malfoy’s body, but Andromeda just rolls her eyes and motions for him to take a step back. “Why don’t you go have a seat over there while I take care of Draco? I hope you don’t mind staying for a while. I believe we have some things we need to talk about.”

Harry couldn’t agree more. With all the things they have to talk about, he’ll probably be here all night. Turning to look in the direction Andromeda nodded, Harry can’t see anything but more endless space. He decides to trust her anyway, taking a few wobbly steps towards the alleged seating area before looking back to check that Andromeda doesn’t need any help after all.

She doesn’t. Harry watches her retreating back, huffing a silent laugh at the sight of Malfoy floating beside her, tethered to his aunt by a delicate chain, weightless as an astronaut in outer space.

_You’ll feel better as soon as I can release you from gravity._

Even if Harry still can’t grasp what’s happening here, nor the reasonings behind Andromeda’s words, he does hope Malfoy feels better now. It doesn’t matter that he’s an obnoxious git; there’s something seriously wrong with the man, and Harry can’t help but feel sorry for him.

Eventually, Harry finds the chairs Andromeda had directed him to, making out their shapes only just in time not to trip over them. It doesn’t help that they’re blending in with their surroundings to the point of ridiculousness, upholstered as they are in black velvet sprinkled with tiny stars embroidered in shimmering silver thread.

When he sits down, the area immediately lights up, most likely prompted by his weight meeting with the cushion under him. Looking up, Harry smiles at the sight of a sun hovering like a lamp above the small coffee table in the middle of the seating area. _Our sun_ , he corrects himself once he recognises the eight planets in orbit around it.

Leaning back in his chair, Harry quickly loses track of time observing the sedate movements of the solar system. It seems to be a perfect replica of the real thing, at least as far as he can remember from five years worth of Astronomy studies with Professor Sinistra. Every moon is there, as is the asteroid belt spread out between Jupiter and Mars. Even Jupiter’s centuries-old storm, the Great Red Spot, is moving like it should, just under the equator of the striped gas giant.

_…be an obedient son and make your father proud…, …see it clearly now; how wrong I was…_

Over and over, Mafoy’s words come back to him, unbidden. Fragments of perfectly penned sentences flicker before his inner eye, compelling him to mull over his former adversary to an extent he hasn’t conducted in several years.

_…no other friendship would ever matter as much…, …Did you know regret can eat you from within?_

It’s all too easy to conjure the memories of their shared childhood, to think back to the happenings mentioned in Malfoy’s letter. Harry had thought he’d left them behind ages ago, but as it turns out, they’ve all remained unscathed, lurking just around the corner; patiently waiting to accost him when he least expects it, like some cruel sort of protracted mental peek-a-boo. And now, Harry’s head is swimming with images of younger versions of the obnoxious blond prat, sneering and scowling just as he always has; making Harry’s blood boil, just as he always did.

One thing is different this time, however; something Harry had never thought possible. He doesn’t even want to admit it at first, but as the soreness returns to his throat there’s no use denying it anymore. Reading Malfoy’s letter, reluctantly allowing himself to relive the past from his point of view, has made him… sympathise with the obnoxious blond prat he’s always loved to hate.

The happy, pampered little boy, so misled, so brainwashed… Meeting the real world with all its complexity — its abundance of values, views, and opinions — for the first time at age eleven must have been a rather shocking experience. _Much like your own introduction to the wizarding world_ , Harry’s mind helpfully supplies.

Haunted by the image of a confused sixteen-year-old Malfoy on his mother’s settee, trying to comprehend why receiving the Dark Mark wouldn’t be the honour he’d always thought, Harry reaches into his pocket and retrieves his unfinished letter. Andromeda had interrupted his reading about halfway through, and Harry can’t help it — he just _has_ to find out what else Malfoy had wanted to tell him that day, about six months ago, when he’d sat down to write this novel of a letter.

* * *

_As the days went on, my life as I knew it twisted into something I could no longer recognise, much less understand. If my father wasn’t infallible, if becoming a Death Eater wasn’t something to celebrate, and if I hadn’t experienced any inklings of misconceptions all this time — what did that say about me? About my beliefs? About my worldview?_

_When that fateful night finally arrived, I still had no idea what to think about any of it. Not that I would’ve been able to hold a single thought once the Marking commenced. From then on, my world consisted of nothing but pain. Pain like nothing I’ve ever experienced in my life, neither before nor after that night. The pain wasn’t only to my forearm, but to every fibre of my being. Every bone, muscle, and nerve. Every organ, vein, and cell. And it wasn’t only physical either. It flowed through my mind, too, every mental nook and cranny, and it drenched my soul like fizzing acid. It scorched it with its infernal heat and tore it to shreds with its ruthless claws. By the time I woke up, I had become a full member of the Death Eater society, a membership for life with no chance of ever turning back._

_And then I got my assignment. I told myself it was an honour to be trusted with such important tasks; to not only be asked to provide a passage into Hogwarts but also given the responsibility of ‘taking care of’ the wizard in charge of the opposing side, Riddle’s main adversary. It took me over a year to realise what that assignment actually was: my father’s punishment for failing on his mission. You see, Riddle never expected me to succeed; he expected me to fail so he could punish me in front of my parents, torture me and kill me. I was just a pawn, the son of a disappointing lackey, trapped in an oncoming war and powerless to control anything about the situation I found myself in._

_Yes, I’m aware I did again have a choice. One I didn’t want to contemplate, but a choice nonetheless. In one corner was my task, to kill the Headmaster and let Death Eaters into the school, and in the other the death of my parents and myself. Even if Dumbledore had been just, impartial, and the most perfect Headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen, I hope you’re able to understand that my choice still would have been the same. You may have grown up without your parents, but I know family and loyalty are both concepts you value highly._

_For the entire sixth year, I could barely think about anything else. I’m aware you noticed; it was undoubtedly clear to see for anyone curious enough to look. I struggled with my doubts, I struggled with my health, and I struggled with that damned cabinet. I couldn’t sleep or concentrate on my studies. For Merlin’s sake, I couldn’t even muster up any enthusiasm for Quidditch, not even at the prospect of beating you to the Snitch._

_The months passed far too quickly, and I grew ever more desperate for every week without any progress. And in my desperation, I put several innocent lives at risk. It will never matter what I do, how many good deeds or right choices I’ll manage in the future, I will never be free from the burden of knowing two people nearly died from my foolish actions that year._

_Or, maybe I should say three. Because there’s no denying my foolish actions were also behind your decision to curse me with that wicked spell in the bathroom. And no matter my abundance of self-preservation and Slytherin-induced survival instincts, there are still moments when I wonder if Severus’s timely arrival really was the blessing it felt like at the time. Maybe we all would’ve fared better had I died that day?_

_But I lived. And, against all odds, at last, I even managed to repair that infernal cabinet. The reason for doing it might have been nefarious. Still, it doesn’t take away from my pride in carrying out the research and calculations, not to mention the intricate spellwork, needed to accomplish it._

_The second part of my assignment was a whole other kettle of Flobberworms. I just couldn’t do it. I thought I could, but… I couldn’t. Not even as I envisioned my mother being tortured by Riddle._

_And you should have heard him, Harry — Dumbledore, I mean — he just kept on talking. I was pointing my wand at him, and he just kept on talking. About my mission, about Severus, about Rosmerta… he even lauded my cunning for coming up with the idea to use the Vanishing Cabinets and congratulated me for succeeding in repairing them. Can you believe it, Harry? I nearly can’t, and I was there._

_And then he killed me. With kindness. I was the one pointing my wand at him, an old unarmed man, and yet he was the one killing the last traces of my former self, the last shreds of my illusion, with compassion and hope and kindness._

_He said he could help me, that your Order could hide me, and my mother too — even protect my father where he was, locked away in Azkaban. Of all the things Dumbledore ever did, this might very well have been the cruellest one. How was I supposed to be able to kill him after he just offered me salvation? Of course I wouldn’t manage to go through with it. But I also knew it wouldn’t matter much if I didn’t. He would still be killed as soon as the Death Eaters joined us. And as soon as he was dead, his offer of help would be null and void. The only thing left for me would be the life-long unbearable torture of knowing that there might have been a way out of the mess I’d been trapped in, another path I could’ve taken, had I only had the courage to ask for it._

_Headmaster Dumbledore died that night, but his words lived on within me, echoing relentlessly in my head all through the summer, tempting me to hope for things I’d never dared hope for before. I tried my best to quell it, to put out that pathetic flare of a dream, but to no avail. Thinking rationally, it was fairly obvious he had only led me on to buy time, that he had only dangled that offer of help in front of me with no intention to actually follow through. And yet, there I was, hiding away up in my rooms and wishing for it to be true, that there were actually people out there who would be willing to help us if I only reached out to them._

_But with Dumbledore gone, I had no idea who to turn to, who to trust with this. Even if I had my suspicions, I had no idea who belonged to your Order and who didn’t. I had no idea who of you would be willing to help and who wouldn’t. But when September finally came around, I had a solid plan. I knew what I would do, knew who I would talk to. I had decided I’d do it as soon as we arrived at Hogwarts; before I lost my nerve and the courage I’d been gathering for weeks. There was only one person I knew, with one-hundred per cent certainty, was in the Order — and even with all the horrible things I’d done up till then, I happened to have some leverage over him. You see, he’d almost killed me the year before. And if I were able to play my cards right, if I were able to appeal to his compassion and guilt from that incident, I hoped I’d be able to persuade him to help me and my family._

_Yes, I’m talking about you, Harry. During that summer, I realised with perfect clarity that you were my one and only hope, the only one who could save me and my parents from the ruthless clutches Riddle had us trapped in. I dreaded having to approach you about this, feared the rejection and the contempt I all but knew you’d be throwing in my face, but I told myself it’d be worth it. If there was even a teeny tiny chance that you would be able to help, it’d all be worth it._

_But you weren’t there._

_Of course, you weren’t. I don’t know why I ever thought you would be, considering how everyone wanted to lay their hands on you. I just… didn’t think, I guess. Just as always, my selfish brain had managed to focus solely on my own problems and disregard everything else. For me, you had become such a fixed part of Hogwarts that the thought of you not being there never even struck my mind._

_And it’s not like I’d missed the fact that you were gone. Riddle had ranted and raved about it for weeks after that raid on the Burrow a month previous. You seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth right under everyone’s noses. Riddle was looking for you, the snatchers were looking for you, and even if they never admitted it, I bet even your allies at the Ministry were looking for you. Was there anyone at all who knew where you were, or was your Order looking for you, too?_

_There were rumours everywhere, and even if I didn’t believe a word they were saying, I couldn’t avoid hearing them, couldn’t keep myself from wondering. Some said you were dead, others that you’d been captured. Some claimed the Ministry had you locked up, afraid to lose you, and others said you had fled the country — or at least the wizarding world._

_But I know you, Harry. I know you’d never willingly run away like a coward to abandon the people you love and care for. And apart from your two closest friends (and the then-banned Muggle-borns), everyone else was still around, even your alleged girlfriend Ginevra Weasley. I was also quite sure you weren’t imprisoned or kept away by either side of the war. Having you close would’ve been too much of a sign of power for anyone not to let it be known far and wide. No, you were still out there, gone rogue and doing Merlin knew what. I just knew it._

_In fact, it was the only thing that kept me going that year, the notion of you doing whatever needed to be done to win the war. While I remained in the castle, keeping up appearances, you were out there, scheming, biding your time, somehow preparing for the confrontation we all knew would come sooner or later. I imagined you as the sun, hiding beneath the thunderclouds, not visible but undoubtedly there, waiting — and how I longed to see you again, longed for your rays to break through those dark clouds and set the world to rights._

_While you were gone, I was careful not to raise suspicions, knowing that if anyone ever started to question my allegiances, I’d be killed in a heartbeat. With the Carrows joining the teaching staff, Riddle had spies everywhere, and I couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Severus, who had always been my mentor and my steady rock, not after what happened that night in the Astronomy Tower._

_I continued to act the perfect Death Eater, hating what I was, what I did. I’m sure your friends have already told you about what they made us do to the younger kids, and to the ones who dared question the new order. Just thinking about it now, without even having to spell it out… the remorse is almost unbearable, seated like a cold stone in my chest, growing heavier for every passing day. It weighed on me already then, slowly sucking the life out of me as I struggled not to lose my faith, my will to survive. I dreamt of you coming back to save me, to save us all, and that dream was what kept me alive. You kept me alive._

_If you’d known any of this, maybe you wouldn’t have been so surprised when I refused to identify you that day when the snatchers brought you to my home. Maybe you would’ve understood why I tried to stop Vince from killing you in the Room of Hidden Things. Maybe you would have been able to imagine the dread I felt as I witnessed your limp body in Hagrid’s arms._

_If you’d known any of this, maybe you would’ve agreed to meet with me so I could tell you all of this in person, so I could tell you how much I regret all those horrible things I said, and did, and supported, and believed. Maybe I would’ve been offered the chance to apologise, to ask your forgiveness, to let you know I’ve changed since then; am still trying every day to become a better person than the one I was the day before._

_There’s so much more I want to apologise for, so much more than a letter like this could ever hold. And I realise you’ll probably never agree to see me, which is why I felt compelled to put at least this much down in writing, just in case. I don’t know how much time I have left, and I can’t bear the thought of leaving this world with you still regarding me as your enemy._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Draco_

* * *

Harry swallows around the lump in his throat.

By the sound of it, Malfoy already knew he was dying half a year ago. And Harry hadn’t even cared to open his letters… Not that Harry would’ve taken them seriously if he had. Malfoy has always had a way with his words, and if Harry hadn’t just witnessed the condition the man is currently in, he would never have believed a word in that letter to be honest and sincere.

… _he killed me… with compassion and hope and kindness…_

Now, though, Harry has no idea what to believe. Malfoy has never given him any reason to trust him before; who’s to say he’s safe to do so this time, even if he wanted to? And there’s no denying it: after reading that letter, there’s a big part of him that wants to believe it, that wants to accept the possibility that Malfoy has indeed changed. That the former Death Eater has truly come to regret his past actions and beliefs, that he might have even started to do so long before the end of the war.

… _you were my one and only hope…_

_Merlin_ , he’d even compared Harry to the sun… And that metaphor had been exquisite; the perfect example of Malfoy’s unrivalled eloquence. The perfect example of why Harry shouldn’t trust him. Because, with phrasings like that, Malfoy could easily lead Harry to believe almost anything.

… _You kept me alive…_

And the thing is, ultimately, deep down, Harry doesn’t _want_ to believe the sincerity in those words. Because he knows from experience (and one overlong conversation with a concerned Auror Instructor Harpington) that he has a tendency to always think good of people, to see redeemable qualities and signs of remorse even where there are none. And the prospect of allowing himself to believe in Malfoy’s honesty, to get his hopes up, only to find out it was all a scam…

… _I don’t know how much time I have left…_

Harry lets his head fall back against the soft upholstery, losing himself in the endless canopy of stars. His vision is blurred, and he chalks it up to straining his eyes reading in the dark — until he realises there are tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

And that’s how Andromeda later finds him. As she sits down in the chair opposite, she tells him Malfoy is asleep and that while she waits for him to recover, she’ll answer any questions Harry may have. Harry doesn’t even know where to start. He wants to ask about the Universe Hall, about her being an Unspeakable, and how she’s managed to keep it secret all this time. He wants to know why they’re here, why the lamp is a solar system, and how the floor isn’t visible. However, that’s not what escapes his mouth once he opens it.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she says, “but I do have a theory that I’ve been working on for quite some time. His condition is very rare, though, and much more severe than any other similar cases I’ve come across so far.”

“And how many cases have you come across so far?”

“Since I started studying it in 1979, four.”

“Only four?”

There’s a pained expression in Andromeda’s eyes as she nods. “Yes. The first one — the one that got me into this field of research — was my cousin Regulus.”

“Sirius’ brother?”

“The very same.”

Andromeda conjures a glass of water and takes a sip before floating it over to the coffee table. Then she tells Harry about Regulus, about how he’d knocked on her door one evening in early 1979, just after she’d put little Dora to sleep. He had wanted to talk, to ask for advice. He’d said he regretted joining the Death Eaters, that he wanted to defy Voldemort somehow but didn’t know how to since he’d been feeling so weak lately. He’d mentioned chest pains and, when asked to try to describe it, he’d said it felt as if his life force was running out of him. None of Andromeda’s diagnostic spells had made any sense, something which had puzzled her to no end since she was a trained Mediwitch at the time.

“He disappeared before I had any chance to solve the mystery, and I’ve been researching his strange condition ever since.”

“And what have you found out so far?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you in a moment,” she smiles. “First, though, I want you to know about the other cases, see if you draw the same conclusions as I have.”

“Okay,” Harry acquiesces. His earlier exhaustion is long forgotten, vaporised by the idea of a mysterious case waiting to be cracked. His mind is already in full Auror Investigation mode, gathering clues, connecting dots. “Tell me about the other ones.”

“The second one was… Sirius.”

Harry’s heart misses a beat at the mention of his godfather’s name. “ _Siri—?_ Oh fuck, I— I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Andromeda says gently. “As far as I know, Remus and I were the only ones who knew.”

“But…” The lump is back in his throat again, conjured by the thought of Sirius suffering from the same symptoms as Malfoy.

“It only manifested after he escaped from Azkaban. And by the time you got the opportunity to get to know him properly, his symptoms were already gone.”

“He was cured?” Harry blurts, surprised. Relieved. “How?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t any of my doing, I’m afraid. It seemed to subside by itself.”

Harry ponders that for a moment. “So, Regulus, Sirius, and Malfoy? It sounds like it runs in the family?”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Harry’s stomach drops as the next thought strikes him. “How about you? And your sisters? You’re not affected, are you?”

“No, I’m not. None of us were.”

“So…” Harry frowns, “It’s a male thing, then?”

“Oh, you Gryffindors…” Andromeda mumbles, shaking her head with a fond look in her eyes. “So eager, always jumping to conclusions before you’re presented with the whole picture.”

“Well, three closely related males with the same condition. Don’t tell me you didn’t make the same connection.”

“Of course, I did. It was one of my preferred theories for a long time.”

“But it’s not anymore? So, I reckon the last one’s a witch?”

The hint of a smile fleets over Andromeda’s lips. “Correct.”

“Who?”

“My great-aunt, Cassiopeia Black.”

As it turns out, Great-Aunt Cassiopeia Black had shown light symptoms of low energy and the occasional dull chest ache for as long as Andromeda could remember. Never enough to seek help, though, and Andromeda hadn’t realised it could be related to her cousins’ cases until after the woman had died in the early nineties.

“Still within the family,” Harry muses. “Am I at least right in assuming it’s genetic?”

“It is, sort of, but not quite.”

“Sort of?” Harry frowns. _What kind of answer is that?_ “How can anything be ‘sort of’ genetic?”

“It can; when it’s a Family Curse.”

“A Family Curse?” Harry winces. He’s fairly sure his suddenly high-pitched voice would’ve echoed off the walls, had there been regular walls. “Sorry,” he adds in a calmer tone. “What kind of Family Curse?”

“Let me ask,” Andromeda says instead of answering, “what do these four people have in common, besides being members — or former members — of the House of Black?”

Harry racks his brain for something — anything — that his godfather and his school nemesis ever had in common. Except for their good looks. Harry can’t recall Cassiopeia’s features from the family tapestry at the moment, but he finds it highly improbable that’s what Andromeda is asking for anyway.

“Their names,” Harry says at last. “They’re all named after stars or constellations.”

Andromeda nods approvingly. “They are. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“But… so are you?” Harry points out. _As if she didn’t already know_ , says a voice in his head sounding very much like Hermione. “And Bellatrix is a star too, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Andromeda agrees. “And as far as I can tell, we were both born under the curse. However, my sister and I have been able to avoid triggering it.”

“And what’s triggering it?”

“Patience, Harry.” And there’s that fond head shake again. “Before we come to that, I need to tell you more about the Curse.”

“All right.” Harry leans back in his chair, only now realising he’d been sitting in rapt attention with his forearms resting on his knees for Merlin knows how long. “Enlighten me.”

“The earliest recordings I’ve found are from the Middle Ages, recounting a tale about a woman who had lived with her husband for several years without being able to give him an heir. The husband had gotten impatient, and so had his parents, all of them demanding an heir within a year or the woman would risk being disowned and replaced. Desperate, she turned to the sky, wishing on a shooting star to give her a child. Her wish was granted, and when her son was born nine months later, she named him Orion.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just read that in a book of fairy-tales?”

“Haven’t you learned by now that most of our fairy-tales stem from real-life events? Like _The Tale of the Three Brothers_?” she winks, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“So you’re saying it’s true? That the sky actually made her pregnant somehow?”

Andromeda laughs. A rare thing, and a delightful one. “No, probably not. More likely, it boosted her fertility. As seems to be the case with several of her descendants through the centuries. Draco and I are both conceived under similar conditions, as well as all our other Black relatives named after stars or constellations. They call us Starchildren; because legend says the shooting star takes up residence in the woman’s uterus and is incarnated as a child.”

“Honestly, that sounds more like a blessing than a curse.”

“It does. However, you mustn’t forget that a blessing is often a curse in disguise. You see, a gift like that never comes without a price.”

“A price?”

Harry comes to think of The Little Mermaid and how she had to give up her voice to become a human. What had these Starchild mothers had to pay for their pregnancies? Their soul? Their hearts? Out of these women, Harry had only ever met Narcissa, and between her and Walburga’s portrait, there’s no denying they both seem rather cold-hearted.

“None of the sources I’ve found states the conditions under which a Starchild is conceived with any clarity, but all seem to agree that it’s connected to the family motto, _Toujours Pur_.”

“Always Pure.”

“Exactly. Time and again, these records stress the importance of purity for a Starchild to be able to ‘shine properly’. And when that purity is contaminated, it’s said the Starchild will start to fade.”

“F-fade? How?” Harry’s voice sounds weak, breathless.

“Well, take Draco, for example. He—”

Andromeda is interrupted by a sudden buzzing noise and excuses herself to go check on Malfoy, leaving Harry alone with his jumbled thoughts. Her words are mind-boggling, all but unbelievable, and yet… thinking about Malfoy, it kind of makes sense.

Harry recalls Malfoy appearing so vivacious and charismatic in his youth, how the boy almost seemed to be shining. The man who had knocked on his door earlier today had indeed looked muted in comparison, colourless, lifeless, soulless.

_Fading_.

Harry swallows.

And it’s not anything recent either, Harry realises. If he’s not mistaken, it had started already in sixth year. Harry remembers watching him, remembers thinking he looked pale and haggard. Didn’t Malfoy even mention it in the letter? How he’d been struggling with his health? Could this be it? Has he been fading all this time?

“What the hell happened to you?” Harry whispers into the starry sky.

* * *

_31 December 2001_

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope your Christmas has been just as joyous and perfect as I imagined it. You deserve good things, not only to make up for all you missed out on during your childhood, but because you are a good man. I’m not saying you’re perfect; Merlin knows you’re not, but you always strive to be good, you aim to help. At least, that’s how I’ve always seen you, how I will always see you._

_This will be my last letter to you, I promise. I’ll even make it my New Year’s resolution if you want. I doubt I’ll have much time to break it anyway, seeing that it looks like my time is running out._

_Yes, I’m sorry to tell you this, but it seems your efforts to save my life were all in vain. St Mungo’s brightest Healers were completely flummoxed by my condition. Apparently, there are no records of previous cases with similar symptoms in the hospital’s history, and although I always aspired to become someone special, this was certainly not how I meant it. I guess the old saying, ‘be careful what you wish for…’ has never rung more true. Because I am special now, special enough to even have my strange case transferred to the Department of Mysteries._

_The Unspeakable caring for me is supportive and kind, but so far they too have been unable to help. I know they’re trying their best to figure out what’s wrong with me, but I’m just not sure there’s enough time. These symptoms have been plaguing me on and off for years already, and some days, my only wish is for it all to end. Can you believe that? Me, the prime example of Slytherin self-preservation, wishing to die?_

_That’s one of the symptoms, actually, the continuous drainage of my life force. Merlin, it feels like all of me is slowly fading away, physically, mentally, emotionally. I don’t even recognise myself anymore, and I doubt you would either. I’m just a waning shadow of the man I once was, Harry, and I’m scared._

_I know how crazy this will sound, how irrational, but deep within me there is something insisting you’re somehow the key to all this, my last hope for survival. I’m aware it doesn’t make any sense, but in some twisted way, it wouldn’t surprise me if it were true, either. If it was, it would indeed be fitting. My life has always revolved around you in one way or another, like a moon orbiting around its planet, a planet around its sun, or a galaxy’s stars around its centre._

_And now I’m dying, and my entire being is insisting that I seek you out. My body aches to go to you; I can feel the pull humming steadily at my core, in the pit of my stomach. But I won’t succumb to it. I promise I’ll do whatever I can not to bother you any more than I already have._

_I hope you’ll get everything you’ve ever wished for, everything you’ve ever dreamed of. I wish you a lifetime of health and happiness, of love and peace. You’re worth it. You’ll always be worth it._

_Farewell, my sun._

_Yours,_

_Draco_


	5. When You Wish Upon a Star

“He sent me letters,” is the first thing out of Harry’s mouth as Andromeda returns. His voice is hoarse, thick with emotion, and his vision is blurred again.

“He…?”

Harry extends the parchment he’s been clutching in his hand, unable to make his vocal cords cooperate. As Andromeda sits down to read it, Harry focuses on his breathing, willing himself to calm down enough to clear his head, to regain his voice, to make sense of…

It makes no sense.

It makes absolutely. No. Fucking. Sense.

Malfoy is dying, and… for some inexplicable reason, he wants to drag Harry into his bloody mess? _Why would he think I…?_

_…my last hope for survival…_

Harry has less than three months to graduation. Everything was going perfectly according to plan, his life had finally settled into some kind of normalcy — and now _this_ … Harry doesn’t _want_ to be part of any weird, ancient family curse. He doesn’t _need_ any more fucking drama in his life. And he certainly doesn’t need any more fucking Malfoy.

“Harry, I…”

“What does he mean, I’m the key?” Harry blurts. “I’m not ‘the key’. I have no idea what he’s talking about; how can I possibly be ‘the key’, when I don’t even…”

“Harry,” Andromeda says gently, cutting him off in that polite way of hers that always makes Harry stop dead in his tracks, no matter how agitated he is. “Thank you for letting me read this,” she continues as she hands back the letter across the table. “It’s obviously part of a private conversation between the two of you, and I’m grateful for you trusting me with it.”

Harry has half a mind to correct her and point out there never was a conversation. Or at least, that if there was, it was only one-sided; Malfoy pouring out his thoughts and emotions on parchment, and Harry never even bothering to read them. Never even bothering to open those fucking envelopes. And for Malfoy to do something like that, to share something so personal with another human being — not to mention, with _Harry_ of all people — it must’ve been…And Harry just… shared… _Fuck_.

“Unfortunately, I can’t say for sure what he means by the things he’s written about you — at least, not yet. He never told me about this pull he’s talking about, but if it is what I’m suspecting it is, you may very well be ‘the key’.”

“But… What if I don’t _want_ to be the key? What if I don’t want to be involved in your fucked-up family secret?”

“If I’m right,” Andromeda says calmly, her soft tone once again making Harry aware of his own flustered state, “I’m afraid you may not have a choice in the matter. You may already have been involved in this for longer than you think.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest but changes his mind mid-inhale, opting instead for a more mature approach.

“And how do we know if you’re right?”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened earlier, before you came here? In his letter, Malfoy mentions he doesn’t intend to bother you anymore. Naturally, that makes me rather curious to know how the two of you managed to end up together in the antechamber of the Department of Mysteries on a Thursday evening.”

So Harry tells her. About Malfoy knocking on his door. About their argument, and Malfoy collapsing on Harry’s doorstep. He tells her about Hermione and the diagnostic spells, about her quest for Malfoy’s classified records. And Malfoy’s neglected letters.

“I finally read them tonight, and… Well, he keeps on talking about wanting to apologise, to say he’s sorry for everything and… I honestly can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. Not that I don’t want to believe him — _I do_ — it’s just… Those letters, they’re so far apart from the Malfoy I used to know, I simply can’t shrug off the feeling that they’re fake; like some practical joke at my expense or something… I just…”

Harry looks up to find brown eyes soft with compassion. Andromeda hasn’t said anything since Harry began the retelling of his eventful evening, but now she clears her throat discreetly.

“If nothing else, I should at least be able to put those suspicions to rest.”

“You—?”

“It’s a good thing you came here tonight, Harry. Draco is not a man who opens up easily and he apparently carries many secrets that he should have shared with me a long time ago. I don’t know why he never did, but now that you’ve told me this, I’m feeling more confident about being able to solve this case than I’ve ever been before.”

“You do? How?”

Instead of answering his question like a normal person, Andromeda poses her own. “Do you know what happens to a star when it’s about to die?”

“I— Yeah, they… shrink, right?”

“Yes. Their own gravity pulls their mass closer to the core, compressing them. For the smaller stars, this process is quite uneventful; they simply shrink and eventually fade into black dwarfs. But the larger ones… Their cores get too large to support their own mass, causing them to collapse and…”

“…explode,” Harry murmurs. “In supernovae...”

“Precisely. Ending up as glorious clouds of dust and gas — like the Rosette Nebula over there, for example.”

She points to her right and Harry follows her gaze, only now seeing the magnificent nebula glowing in the distance. It mostly looks like an intricate cluster of thin, rosy-red filaments surrounded by a crimson cloud of gas, and Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the wondrous sight.

“I don’t yet know what will happen to Draco,” Andromeda says softly, forcing Harry’s attention back to their conversation. “But his core is so heavy by now that I’m starting to fear the worst. I don’t even know how he’s still alive, to be honest. With that constant pressure…”

_Oh._

“That’s why you released him from gravity,” Harry breathes, suddenly understanding.

“Yes.”

“So, you think Malfoy’s going to… _explode?_ ” The mere thought makes Harry want to… Freak out? Throw up? Do… _something_.

“Not physically, no,” Andromeda says matter-of-factly. “But if his core is large enough, his magic might.”

_Oh, dear Merlin._ Harry doesn’t even want to think about how much damage an exploding magical core could cause. He’s never heard of anything like that happening before; maybe it never has. Harry swallows.

“So, it’s either fading into nothing or going out with a bang, is it?”

And when put like that, Harry instinctively knows there’s no way Draco Lucius Malfoy would ever leave this world in less than a spectacular bang.

“Actually,” Andromeda says, “in theory, there is a third option, too.”

One thing Harry’s never gotten used to when dealing with Slytherins is how they’re so fucking hard to read. It’s impossible to know if Andromeda’s comment is meant to be interpreted as hopeful or ominous.

“Just say it, Andromeda. It can’t possibly be worse than a magical core explosion, can it?”

But of course it can.

“I don’t think Draco’s magical core ever was powerful enough for us to have to worry about it, but as a researcher, you quickly learn to take all eventualities into account…” Andromeda’s gaze wanders over to the Rosette Nebula, but Harry never takes his attention away from the woman, unwilling to miss a word of what she has to say. “Did Aurora Sinistra ever tell you what happens to the cores of the largest stars after a supernova explosion?”

Harry racks his brain, trying to remember if his former Astronomy Professor ever did tell them, but draws a blank.

“They don’t explode in the supernova?”

“No,” Andromeda says, shaking her head. “They become black holes.”

“As in…? Like…? _Fuck_.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it.” Harry cringes belatedly at his word choice, but Andromeda waves his apology aside. “Believe me, I said nastier things than that the day I realised it.”

“But…? Let me get this straight. You’re saying that, worst-case scenario, Malfoy will turn into a black hole? Like…? I can’t even… What happens if he does?”

“I don’t know,” Andromeda says. “There’s no recorded precedent for that happening, but if it does… Out in the universe, a black hole’s gravity is so strong that not even light can manage to escape it. It sucks in everything in sight, growing ever bigger, and whatever ends up in there can never be retrieved again. There’s no way to know for sure how this would be reflected in a Starchild, but—”

“Oh dear Merlin,” Harry gasps, his mind reeling. “Potentially, he could attract and obliterate, like… _everything_.”

“Oh Harry, now you’re being dramatic again.” The corners of Andromeda’s mouth twitch with amusement. “I’m guessing it’s to do with your Muggle upbringing; you always tend to focus on the physical, don’t you?”

Harry lauds himself for managing not to address the Muggle comment — for the time being. Apparently, there are more important matters to worry about right now. Andromeda relents at the sight of Harry’s scowl, schooling her face before continuing in a more serious tone.

“No, I don’t think a Starchild’s black hole would attract and obliterate _anything_ visible, to be honest. I’m more concerned about the _invisible_.”

“Like?”

“Like magic.”

“ _Magic?_ You mean he’s going to—?”

Harry quietens — probably a good thing, considering the high-pitched panic in his voice — as Andromeda shakes her head.

“All I’m saying is that a _really_ powerful Starchild _might_ end up absorbing every trace of magic left in this world. Or they might not. No one knows. I don’t know about you Gryffindors but, personally, I think that’s too much at stake as it is.”

Harry swallows. He can but agree. “Please say you have a theory of how to fix this?”

“I do, actually. I’ve had one for a few years now, and I think you just gave me the last pieces of the puzzle.”

“I did?”

“You might have done — that’s still to be verified — but before we come to the solution, I need to tell you more about the cause.”

“So, tell me.”

Andromeda nods and Harry leans forward, placing his forearms on his thighs. There’s a case to be solved, a secret mission to save magic from total destruction, and if there’s any way he could help… He’s never appreciated being called _The Saviour of the Wizarding World_ , but he can’t deny he’d be willing to earn that title for real this time, if possible.

“Let’s go back to the Black family motto, _Toujours Pur_. Before I left, I said a Starchild needs to be pure to be able to shine. I’ve spent years trying to determine the actual meaning behind those words. I quickly ruled out the official interpretation of the motto, that it would have something to do with pure-blood pride. Regulus was just as much of a pure-blood as anyone else in the family, so that couldn’t be it.

“For a long time, I researched and ruled out dozens of different theories, but it wasn’t until I happened upon Aunt Cassia’s diary five years ago that I was able to make any essential connections between her case and my cousins’. I don’t know what you know about Cassiopeia Black, but she mostly kept to herself and lived all her life unmarried. No one knew why, and no one ever dared ask her, but as I read her diary, I found out about her secret.”

Andromeda refills her water glass and takes a sip before continuing to tell Harry about Cassiopeia Black and the love of her life — a woman without a name, only referred to in the diary as My Heart. They’d had a secret relationship for three years after finishing school, keeping their love hidden from their families’ homo-critical eyes. Even though Cassiopeia dreamt about one day living openly with her girlfriend, she never found the courage to defy her family and take that final step out of hiding. Tired of waiting for a future that may never come, My Heart eventually gave her an ultimatum: to go all in or to part ways. Cassiopeia was too scared to commit, too scared of being disinherited and shunned by her family, and so her lover moved on, two years later marrying the woman who would remain her wife until her death.

“Despite her decision, Cassiopeia was never able to forget about My Heart, and not a day went by that she didn’t think of her, wondering what her life would have been like had she chosen differently that day. Unable to let go of her love, she never married, declining several proposals throughout the years in favour of a life in solitude.

“When I learnt about her fate, I finally had some solid clues to bind my then three cases together. And once I could add the specifics of Draco’s case to what I already had, they only served to bring further substance to my theory.”

“Which is?” Harry prods, wishing he were able to make the necessary connections and solve the riddle himself but feeling far too overwhelmed and tired for his brain to pull it off.

“Regret. Remorse. Guilt. That’s what makes a Starchild suffer; contamination of their conscience. As long as a Starchild lives according to their values and beliefs and never regrets their actions, they will stay healthy and continue to shine — like me, and my sister. We may have led very different lives and disagreed about nearly everything, but we both stayed true to our hearts and made the choices we did without regret.

“Regulus, on the other hand, didn’t. As you know, he came to regret joining the Death Eaters. His physical symptoms had started to show about the same time as he’d started to doubt his allegiances, and once Kreacher was afflicted, it got worse. His core contracted, growing heavier as it absorbed his life force, his energy, even any nutrition he ingested. Because he chose to give up his life for the cause when he decided to steal Slytherin’s locket from the cave, he never lived long enough to reach the severe stage Draco’s currently in.”

Andromeda pauses to take another mouthful of water, giving Harry a moment to process her words.

“Okay… so help me get this straight. As I understood it, Cassiopeia lived for many years with her regret without her condition getting any worse, and you said Sirius even recovered from his symptoms. How was that possible?”

“That’s the conundrum that’s been haunting me until tonight. If I’m right in my predictions, the condition can be counteracted by having those regretted choices and actions acknowledged, accepted, and forgiven; by the Starchild themselves and by those afflicted by their actions. Cassiopeia’s lover never blamed her for the choice she made, and although Cassia never fully forgave herself for making that choice, she did acknowledge and accept the fact that she did. So her symptoms receded, only staying with her as a reminder of her regret. As for Sirius, he—”

“I know he always felt guilty for not being there to protect my parents the night they were killed.”

“Well, he may have _felt_ guilty, but that wasn’t why he fell ill. You see, you can’t really regret something you weren’t responsible for in the first place. He may have wished he’d been there to help them that night, but the reason he wasn’t was not his own doing. It was merely an unfortunate twist of fate. And since he never made a conscious choice not to be there, it never triggered the curse. No, his regrets laid with you.”

“With me?”

“Yes, my dear. He didn’t fall ill until he escaped Azkaban and learnt about what happened to you. Finding out about the Dursleys and how they’d been treating you all those years made him regret not putting up more of a fight when he was arrested, not insisting on a proper trial or offer to be questioned under Veritaserum. He never did any of those things, choosing instead to protect the Order’s secrets, but once he realised how much you had suffered in his absence, how much different your life would have been if he’d been able to care for you instead, he came to regret putting the Order’s interests before yours.”

“I—” Harry swallows.

Sirius had suffered because of Harry. Sirius’s regret had started to absorb his life force, eating him up from the inside, because of Harry.

The memory of his godfather is always a painful one to retrieve. Harry had only been given two years to get to know him, two years they’d mostly spent apart, and then… The mental image hits Harry like a punch in the gut. Sirius falling through the veil. Sirius duelling his wicked cousin, taunting her, laughing at her. It hurts like a Crucio, and yet somehow, this time, the image also brings a ray of hope. Remembering the charismatic man with his sparkling mischievous eyes and his gorgeous looks, there’s no doubt he’d been cured of the curse before the end.

“Harry…?” Andromeda’s voice is soft and gentle, distracting Harry from his musings. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s all right. I just…” Harry clears his throat to chase away the rough edges from his vowels. “How about his recovery? You said it went away?”

“Yes, it subsided. And if I’m not mistaken, it happened once he was able to forgive himself for his decision. As far as I can tell, Remus was the one who helped him through it. At least, that’s what I was able to discern from talking with Remus. After he married my daughter, it wasn’t unusual for our conversations to come back to Sirius whenever the two of us were left alone.”

Harry follows her gaze as Andromeda glances up at the solar system hovering in the air above them. When she speaks again, he realises she can read it as if it were a clock.

“Would you excuse me if I left you for a moment?” she says. “I need to check on our fading star.”

“Sure,” Harry shrugs, distracted by the unhurried motions of colourful planets and tiny moons.

“Lovely. I shan’t be long.”

Andromeda gets to her feet and smooths out her robes. She’s already a few yards away, walking steadily through the universe on the invisible floor when Harry’s impulse speaks up without permission.

“Wait,” it says, waiting for Andromeda to stop and turn around before adding, “Can I come with you?”

* * *

In his unconscious state, Malfoy almost looks like a corpse, at least from where Harry is standing several feet away in the dark. He’s still weightless, floating just above the mattress of a bed and secured to the frame with delicate silver chains reaching over his chest, hips, and shins. Harry wants to come closer, wants to make sure the man is still alive, but he doesn’t. It takes a while before he realises the urge isn’t brought on by curiosity but concern.

Andromeda dabs beads of perspiration from Malfoy’s ghostly pale forehead when the truth finally dawns on Harry.

Malfoy isn’t bluffing. His regret is real, and his severe condition is the proof.

The former Death Eater is suffering because he’s literally plagued with remorse. His core is contracting, absorbing every trace of life from his body. The curse is killing him because he wants to be a better person — because he _is_ a better person — than the prejudiced boy Harry once new.

Harry draws a ragged breath, only becoming aware of the tension in his body as Malfoy’s eyes flutter open and Harry feels his shoulders sink.

“Ha— Potter?”

The voice is frail, husky, and nearly inaudible.

“You can sense him, can’t you?” Andromeda says softly.

“Y-yes, I—” Malfoy turns his head to look at Harry, as if he’d felt Harry’s eyes on him. “You’re here...”

It’s but a sigh of relief, a breathy whisper tinged with awe. It makes Harry’s skin tingle.

“I am,” he murmurs, exchanging a glance with Andromeda before taking a few steps closer to the two of them.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to…” Malfoy drifts off before Harry finds out what the man was about to say.

Andromeda gets to her feet, motioning for Harry to take her place on the edge of Malfoy’s bed. Harry hesitates, half expecting Malfoy to protest. But he doesn’t. He merely follows Harry’s approach with bright, silver-grey eyes, letting out an unsteady exhale as Harry sits down beside him.

“You look terrible,” Harry says with a wry smile.

“Can’t imagine why,” Malfoy mutters. “I feel terrific.”

“I bet you do. Is that why you decided to pop by for a visit?”

Malfoy closes his eyes with a pained grimace. “I didn’t.”

Harry snorts. “Oh yes, Malfoy, you did.”

Bright grey eyes flash and Harry swallows his amusement in surprise. It’s the most vivid Malfoy’s looked all evening, a sudden glimpse of the proud and confident boy he once was. When he speaks, though, his soft voice carries nothing but fatigue and dejection.

“I meant, I… I didn’t _decide_ to. It just happened.”

“It just… _happened_?”

“Yes, I—” Malfoy frowns, searching for words. “I was here, floating through space, meditating… and next thing I know, I’m standing in front of a door clutching a creepy snake knocker.” When his gaze meets Harry’s, it’s haunted by a pained expression that makes Harry’s insides clench. “I know I promised I would stay away from you, but… I’m so sorry, Harry. I thought I’d be able to… I’ve been fighting it for so long, and I thought I could… But…”

“The pull…” Harry says, “Is that what you’re saying? That the curse brought you to me?”

Malfoy nods with closed eyes, whispering, “Yes.”

_Oh_.

“I—” Harry blinks, trying to understand. But it’s too late in the evening, too much to take in, too incredible to wrap his head around. “Why?”

Malfoy avoids his gaze, looking up at the endless canopy of stars as he murmurs, “Because it doesn’t want me to fade and die. It wants me to live. It wants me to shine.”

“But…” _it’s a curse_ , Harry wants to say. _When did a curse ever want good things for its victims?_

Only… it’s not a regular curse, is it? It’s a blessing. It grants a longing woman her greatest wish and gives her a child. It wants the child to live a happy life, with a clear conscience. And when their conscience isn’t clear, it wants the child to own up to their regretted actions, to make amends, to ask forgiveness.

_And you ignored him_ , Harry’s mind points out. _When everyone else accepted Malfoy’s apologies and forgave him, you didn’t. You denied him_.

Harry can’t breathe.

Malfoy is dying because of _him_ ; because Harry never cared to meet him, to listen to him, to believe in him. Harry didn’t even bother to open those bloody letters and now… Malfoy is dying.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, quelling the odd urge to take Malfoy’s hand in his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Don’t apologise, Potter. I’m the one who should—”

“I read your letters,” Harry says, cutting him off. “Well, I… I didn’t. Not at first. But I’ve done it now, tonight. They’re… I never would’ve thought…” He falters, unsure of what he’d been about to say. After a deliberate breath to clear his head, something completely different escapes his mouth. “Thank you. For writing them. For sharing all of that with me. It must’ve been…”

“It was,” Malfoy murmurs when Harry falls silent. “It was.”

He looks so tired. Although he’s only been awake for a few minutes, Malfoy looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes, his half-closed lids, his hollow cheeks and chapped lips. Harry’s heart is bleeding at the mere sight of him.

“Why don’t you have a rest?” Harry says softly. “Go back to sleep and we’ll talk later, okay?”

Malfoy nods, closing his eyes only to open them again a second later. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes, I…”

“Then I will.”

Harry stops his hand just in time, less than an inch from Malfoy’s bony fingers.


	6. Defying Gravity

Harry is there when Malfoy wakes up next time, and the next. And the next. They don’t talk much, at least not about anything important, and in between — when Malfoy sleeps — Harry slumbers in the comfortable armchair Andromeda produced for him before heading over to the Burrow to pick up a sleepy Teddy and take him home. He rereads Malfoy’s letters countless times, over and over, until he knows them by heart.

When Malfoy falls asleep the fourth time, Harry leaves him in Andromeda’s care and goes home to change and fetch his textbooks. He’s already missed the test — as well as the rest of his Friday training schedule — but he’s restless and itching to do anything more productive than sit and stare at Malfoy all day. Not that he needs to stay by Malfoy’s side all day, it’s just… it feels wrong not to. Not when he knows Malfoy is suffering because of him. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else anyway.

On his way back, Harry pops by his favourite Indian place and picks up some dinner for them. Not that Malfoy would be able to eat much, especially not anything too spicy, but Harry is ravenous. That evening, he ends up hand-feeding Malfoy pieces of naan dipped in raita.

The next day, Malfoy has recovered enough to notice the textbook Harry lays aside when he wakes up.

“What are you reading?” he mumbles, peering at Harry through long, white-blond eyelashes.

“The DMLE’s Code of Misconduct,” Harry says with a dismissive wave towards his stack of books. “How are you?”

“Read it to me,” Malfoy says.

“Er… “ Harry frowns. “It’s terribly boring.”

“Doesn’t matter. Anything is better than having to make small talk with you.”

The jab should have stung, but it doesn’t. Not when delivered by Malfoy. After a decade of nothing but jabs and bickering and sneers and spite between them, Harry finds this new subdued version of Malfoy rather unnerving to be around. Maybe that’s the reason a spark of excitement shoots down his spine at this first glimpse of the cocky boy he once knew.

So Harry reads, paragraph after paragraph, while Malfoy listens, hums, mutters, and comments. It’s quite distracting, really, effectively denying Harry any chance to take in what he’s reading. But it’s also kind of nice, not studying alone in his home as usual. Plus, as it turns out, it really does help. As Harry learns the next day, Malfoy is an exceptionally active listener. Somehow, he’s managed to memorise everything Harry’s read to him and insists on spending the entire Sunday grilling him about those paragraphs until they actually seem to stick. The curse may have drained Malfoy physically, but his mental abilities appear to be intact.

That evening, Harry goes home to shower and allow himself a full night’s sleep in a real bed. One day away from Auror training is more than enough, he reasons, and Malfoy has actually recovered some in the last few days. He may still look like a dreary skeleton, but at least he’s awake for longer periods now and no longer teetering on the brink of death.

Malfoy’s corpse-like features haunt Harry in his sleep, accusing Harry of being heartless and cruel, for killing him. When the alarm goes off on Monday morning, Harry wakes up sticky and breathless, rushing through his morning routine on pure instinct before heading off to the Ministry.

He can’t remember ever being as distracted as he is that day. Thoughts about Malfoy flit through his mind; phrases from his letters; images of him, drained and dull, floating above his bed in the Universe Hall; older memories of him, young and bright and vibrant — shining like the sun itself. Harry is lucky their Monday schedule consists solely of theoretical classes because his focus and reflexes are practically non-existent and wouldn’t have cooperated in the least had he been put in any sort of sparring situation.

When the class is dismissed at a quarter past five, mere coincidence is the sole reason Harry ends up in a separate lift than his fellow trainees. And once in it, he accidentally pushes the button for Level Nine instead of Eight, taking him not to the Atrium, but to the Department of Mysteries.

“The Universe Hall, please,” he says to the spinning doors. _Since I’m already here_ , he reasons. _Would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?_

It happens again on Tuesday, and when Harry finds himself by Malfoy’s bedside after Wednesday’s classes too, he reluctantly admits to himself that it has turned into a pattern.

And that’s why Harry is late for dinner at Ron and Hermione’s on Thursday evening; because he loses track of time while talking to Malfoy about the new defence spell they’d been practising the same afternoon. It’s not until Hermione’s translucent otter comes bolting through the galaxy that he remembers what day it is.

“How did it go with… you know?” Hermione asks just as Harry is about to open his mouth to a first bite of the lasagna Ron’s made. It smells heavenly.

“Good… I think,” Harry says, reluctantly lowering his fork. He darts a glance in Ron’s direction, wondering what Hermione has told him.

“Do you know what it was?”

She attempts to sound casual, she really does, but Harry can still detect the eager thirst for knowledge humming behind her innocent question.

“Yes.” He hastens to steer the fork to his mouth, letting the food prevent him from elaborating.

“But you can’t tell me.” It’s not even a question, just a statement of the obvious.

Harry shakes his head, chewing and swallowing before taking a sip of the rich red wine to buy himself another moment to collect his thoughts. He hates keeping secrets from his best friends, but Malfoy’s predicament is not his secret to tell, no matter how much he wants to. Yet, Hermione looks rather worried, and he aches to offer her some kind of reassurance, however vague.

“He’s recovering,” he says at last. “He’s already much better than he was a week ago. An— And the Unspeakable in charge of his case seems positive he’ll make it through.”

“Good,” Ron mumbles around a mouthful of lasagna, swallowing before adding, “You’d think he’d suffered enough during the war.”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, trying not to frown at his friend’s words. He would never have imagined Ron uttering a single positive word about Malfoy. The fact that he does — and so casually, too — throws Harry a bit off-kilter, to say the least. Despite what Hermione told him the previous week, about all their friends having accepted the new Malfoy by now, hearing Ron speak of the man without malice or contempt is… surreal.

“I’m glad to hear he’s getting better,” Hermione agrees.

And he really is. For every day Harry comes back, Malfoy has regained a little more energy, a little more weight, a little more colour. They still don’t talk much about the past, but not because they can’t. They probably could if they wanted to. Rather, it’s as if they don’t have to, as if they don’t need to. They probably will at some point, but right now the innocuous small talk and shared silences are doing more for their budding friendship than any serious conversation ever would.

Honestly, Harry’s not sure why he keeps coming back to the Universe Hall. It’s one thing to drop by after training when he’s already in the building, but then the weekend comes and it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. Waking up bright and early on Saturday morning, Harry has no plans to return to the Ministry until Monday. He’s promised to take Teddy over to the Burrow for a playdate with Victoire, and knowing Molly, he won’t be released from her hospitality until well after dinner. Yet, standing in his kitchen later in the evening, ears still buzzing from the lively day as he fills up the kettle from the tap, Harry changes his mind.

Whatever it is that draws him back to the Department of Mysteries, Harry knows it’s not about guilt anymore. It might have been initially — the weight of knowing he was somehow responsible for Malfoy’s suffering had undoubtedly played a part in his many hours by Malfoy’s side those first few days — but that is not why he returns now.

Maybe it’s because the Universe Hall is by far the most peaceful place Harry has ever experienced; a secret haven, an otherworldly sanctuary hidden deep underground in the middle of bustling London. Stepping through that anonymous black door, leaving the chaotic world behind for the silent tranquillity of infinite space, it’s like… like stepping out of your life for a moment. Not to flee from it, or run away from your problems, but to get a little bit of distance, to reload and gain some perspective. Harry had no idea he needed it as much as he apparently does.

Yes, the calming atmosphere is no doubt responsible for at least part of the pull. However, not even Harry can deny there may be more to it than that. Watching Malfoy get better, witnessing the physical day-to-day changes as he transforms from lifeless corpse to gorgeous man — it’s about the most compelling thing Harry’s ever seen. As the days go by, Malfoy’s core releases more and more of his life force, allowing his body to regain its former glory one intriguing step at a time. His torso is slowly filling out, hiding bone behind toned muscle, stretching shirt fabric enough to almost burst at the seams around his chest and biceps. His skin is still pale, as it’s always been, but instead of the appalling sickly grey it once was, it looks healthy now, smooth, lovely, inviting. His features are softening, turning from gaunt and hollow into the perfectly chiselled face Harry remembers from their Hogwarts days. Every day there’s something new and Harry finds himself unwilling to miss out on any of it.

He tries not to think too much on why that is, tells himself it’s only his ever-present awe for Magic at play again. And it probably is, to some extent, but even Harry has difficulties accepting this being the reason for the funny feeling in his chest as he notices the spark returning to those warm grey eyes, or the heat pooling in his gut as he catches himself thinking how soft and luscious Malfoy’s hair looks now, shining like spun silver in the starlight.

It’s all terribly confusing. Which is why Harry doesn’t allow himself to think about it.

Even more confusing, however, is the irrational thrill of excitement that runs down Harry’s spine every time a glint of Malfoy’s old personality springs to the surface. It honestly makes no sense at all. An arrogantly cocked eyebrow here, a smug smirk there, even his witty comebacks and snide remarks — all those things that used to annoy the hell out of him suddenly… Well, okay, they _do_ still annoy him. It’s just… It’s not _all_ they do.

Because Malfoy is funny. He’s witty and clever and funny, and… How is it possible that Harry hasn’t noticed it before? Had it been anyone else, Harry would probably even call him charming. But, since it’s Malfoy, the thought doesn’t even enter his mind.

Contrarily, something that never seems willing to leave Harry’s mind alone is Malfoy’s letters. Malfoy had bared his soul on those sheets of parchment — an exceptional show of trust — and Harry can’t help but wanting to reciprocate, to give something back to even the playing field between them.

“Malfoy?”

“Mm-hmm,” Malfoy says, eventually tearing his eyes from the book he’s been reading. There’s a slight frown creasing his high forehead, whether from irritation or concern Harry’s unable to tell.

“I want to apologise for—”

“Don’t,” Malfoy says, cutting him off with a withering look. “You definitely don’t have anything to apologise for. At least not to me.”

“But I do,” Harry insists. “And I’m going to, whether you want to hear it or not.”

Malfoy’s eye-roll is so over the top Harry has to bite his lip not to snort. “Okay, you stubborn sod,” he says, marking his place in the book with the attached silk ribbon before closing it and putting it aside. “Let’s get it over with. I’m hungry.”

Harry shakes his head, amused. “You’re always hungry these days.”

“Doesn’t make it less disagreeable,” Malfoy mutters, gesturing for Harry to speak.

And that’s when Harry finally apologises for Sectumsempra; for casting that awful spell without knowing what it did. As he does, Harry wonders, not for the first time, if Snape managed to prevent it from scarring, but he doesn’t dare ask. Not now. Maybe later, though. Someday.

He apologises for not trying to help Malfoy escape Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Harry knows he should have; it’s been gnawing on his conscience ever since that fateful night in the Astronomy Tower.

“Yes, I knew,” Harry says when Malfoy frowns. “I was there, hidden under the invisibility cloak.”

And so he tells Malfoy about that night, about Dumbledore’s plans to die at Snape’s wand — to help Snape gain Voldemort’s trust, but also to save Malfoy from becoming a murderer. “I only learned about it later, on the evening of the final battle. If I’d known then, maybe I wouldn’t have hated Snape as much for what he did that night. If I’d known, maybe I would’ve taken Dumbledore’s words to heart. Maybe I would’ve tried to realise his offer to hide and protect you.”

“Of course, you would, oh almighty Saviour,” Malfoy drawls, irony oozing from his every pore.

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry scowls, affronted by Malfoy’s inability to take him seriously. Because he _is_ serious. He _knows_ that he would have tried helping the Malfoys — at least mother and son. He just didn’t know it at the time.

Malfoy smirks, quicksilver eyes glinting with satisfaction. Harry has done it again; swallowed his bait hook, line, and sinker.

“So, you’re about done?” Malfoy asks. “Can we eat now?”

“No, not yet.”

Malfoy lets out the most exasperated diva-esque sigh Harry’s ever heard. Sometimes, his antics are clearly bordering on the verge of ridiculousness, and maybe Harry should be irritated by it. Scratch that ‘maybe’, he definitely should. So why is he suddenly fighting a smile?

Harry clears his throat and looks away, trying to regain his composure. He still has one quite important apology to make, and it wouldn’t do to deliver it with a giddy smile on his face.

“I’m sorry for not reading your letters,” he mumbles, addressing his hands which lie folded in his lap. “Well… I did, eventually, the night you appeared at my front door, but I should have done it sooner.”

“Potter, I…”

Malfoy’s voice is soft and low, playing on Harry’s heartstrings as if it were a bow and Harry its cello. When it drifts off, Harry can’t help but look up to search Malfoy’s face, those stormy silver-grey eyes. His gaze is drawn to the motion of Malfoy’s slender neck as the man swallows.

“I’m so sorry for not taking your words seriously,” Harry continues, determined to get it all out before Malfoy manages to stop him; before his own voice abandons him. “I should have. I know that now. I should have agreed to meet with you. I should have let you say what you wanted to say, and I should have listened to you when you wanted to apologise. If I had, maybe you wouldn’t have been…” _a hair’s breadth from dying_.

Harry is unable to finish the sentence, his throat too sore and aching to force the words out. It’s impossible to imagine it now, that just a few weeks ago, Harry wouldn’t have cared a tiny rat’s arse if Malfoy lived or died.

“You don’t have to…” Malfoy says, and by Merlin, that voice…

“Yes, Malfoy, I have to.” Harry’s vision is blurred as he seeks out Malfoy’s eyes again. “I need you to know that… that I forgive you. For all of it. For everything.”

Malfoy’s lips curve into a faint smile. Not a sneer, not a smirk, but an honest to Godric smile. It’s about the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen.

“Not that it hurts to hear you say it,” Malfoy murmurs, “but you really don’t have to. No, Potter,” he adds when Harry opens his mouth to object, “You don’t understand. You don’t have to tell me; because I already know. My being here is the only evidence I need. If you hadn’t forgiven me, I wouldn’t have been alive.”

Without thinking, Harry reaches out and places his hand over Malfoy’s. Malfoy’s bony knuckles are cool against Harry’s heated skin, smooth as silk under his calloused fingers. It takes only a fraction of a second for Harry to realise his mistake, but before he’s given any chance to withdraw, Malfoy’s hand shifts under Harry’s, their palms brushing against each other as Malfoy wraps his fingers around Harry’s hand and squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for forgiving me.”

“I—” Harry swallows, unsure of what he was about to say.

Malfoy gives his hand another squeeze and clears his throat.

“Now, how about that dinner?”

* * *

“Want to try it?”

Harry blinks, disembarking his train of thought in a daze. He honestly can’t say where his mind has just been — it’s not unusual for it to drift off when he’s down here in this confined infinity — but he’s fairly sure neither he nor Malfoy has spoken a word since Andromeda left them for the evening about half an hour ago.

“What?” Harry shifts his gaze from the galaxy of stars before him to the man lounging on the bed at his side. He’s nearly back to normal now — if an incarnated star can ever be called ‘normal’ — and Harry doubts he’ll ever get used to the sight of Draco Malfoy looking like that; stunning without even trying, ravishing even when slouching casually against a headboard, as if he were a fucking supermodel. Harry still has to learn how to keep breathing whenever his gaze falls on him.

There’s an inscrutable smile on Malfoy’s lips and his grey eyes are sparkling like precious diamonds from behind a stray lock of platinum-blond hair. “Weightlessness,” he murmurs. “Want to try it?”

“Er…” It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to. On the contrary, he’s been dying to experience it ever since that first night, nearly four weeks ago, when he first witnessed Andromeda release Malfoy from gravity. He hasn’t dared ask her to let him try it, though, figuring a request like that would come off as rather childish. And if there’s anyone in this world he wants to think of him as mature, it’s the guardian of his godson. _And Malfoy, apparently_ , Harry thinks as he catches himself holding back a bout of excitement while shrugging noncommittally. “Sure.”

Malfoy instructs him to stand up and take hold of the backrest of his chair. “You’ll want to stay grounded until you get accustomed to it,” he explains. Harry does, and once his hands are firmly wrapped around the upholstered top of the chair, Malfoy murmurs the incantation that frees Harry from the pull of Earth.

It’s a weird sensation, feeling the ground releasing you from its hold. But it’s a good weird. A wonderful weird. Harry doesn’t rise to the ceiling like he was half expecting to — he’s not a balloon, lighter than the air surrounding him — he’s just… weightless, floating; suspended in the air like one of those dust particles dancing in a ray of sunlight on a bright summer’s day. Even after fantasising about it for so long, trying to imagine what it would feel like, nothing his mind would ever come up with could even begin to measure up to the real thing. Without gravity pulling him down, without the weight of his body pressing him towards the ground, it suddenly feels like he’s growing taller, standing prouder. He feels invincible in a way he’s never experienced before; like anything is possible. It’s a heady sensation.

Kicking off from the invisible floor, Harry sends himself soaring into the starry sky. He knows there’s a ceiling up above somewhere, that the universe surrounding him is just an illusion, but it doesn’t take away from the pure joy rushing through his veins. Harry spreads his arms wide, tilting his head back to let out a jubilant howl that rises from the depths of his being as he falls backwards into a slow-motion somersault.

Halfway through the turn, he catches sight of Malfoy way down below on his bed. Malfoy is looking up at him, a huge grin on his face, and suddenly Harry doesn’t care anymore if the man thinks him silly or childish. That unguarded smile, that open expression; it’s worth it. It’ll always be worth it. Harry smiles and closes his eyes, revelling in his elated state.

Ever since his first time on a broom, flying has always been Harry’s favourite thing in the world. Being on a broom always makes him feel alive like nothing else; the speed, the adrenaline, and the exhilarating danger, constant reminders of life’s brevity and his desire to live it to the fullest. In the air, he is forced to let go of his worries, focusing solely on what he’s doing, where he’s going, or else accidents are bound to happen. In the middle of a Quidditch match, there’s no room for anything else but keeping track of the game, evading Bludgers, trying to read the other Seeker’s movements, and constantly monitoring the pitch for a golden glint of the evasive Snitch. When he’s on a broom, all his worldly problems fall back to the ground.

And while this — floating through the dark, surrounded by an infinite universe of stars — is nothing like riding a broomstick, Harry can feel the same thing happening now, but for totally different reasons. This feeling of infinity, eternity, offers him something he didn’t even know he wanted: the reassurance that he’s just another tiny human being with tiny trivial problems, an infinitesimal speck in the grand scheme of things.

Some people would undoubtedly be disheartened by a realisation like this, but for Harry, it’s nothing less than liberating. He may be one of the most influential people in Britain’s magical society, but not even _his_ actions will change the fate of the universe. The world will go on regardless, no matter what he does or says, no matter how he decides to live his life, no matter if he fucks it up or not. If broom-flying is what makes him want to live his life to the fullest, space-floating is what finally makes him understand how to actually do it.

Suddenly Malfoy is there, right next to him, his hand gently touching Harry’s back. Harry hasn’t noticed him approaching — so much for his Auror instincts; no ‘constant vigilance’ whatsoever — and the unexpected touch should have startled him, but it doesn’t. Malfoy’s palm on his back doesn’t make him flinch, but smile. As if his body expected Malfoy to join him, maybe even wanted him to.

Harry turns to face him, reaching for Malfoy’s shoulder to steady himself, still unfamiliar with the physics of non-gravity. He laughs at his own clumsiness while Malfoy, elegant and graceful as ever, moves his hands to Harry’s hips and guides Harry to face him. There’s an amused smirk on his lips, but his silvery eyes hold something warm and sweet, something Harry can only interpret as fondness.

And it’s not until then Harry realises how close they are, how real Malfoy’s shoulder is under his palm, how right Malfoy’s hands feel on his hips. And… how fast Malfoy’s heart is beating under his fingertips. Harry can’t recall lifting his free hand to Malfoy’s chest, but there it is nonetheless, bleeding heat and perspiration through the thin silky fabric of Malfoy’s shirt.

Harry doesn’t lean in, at least not consciously. It’s more like he’s drawn in, pulled into Malfoy’s attraction like a stray asteroid captured by a nearby planet; simple, natural, inevitable. Suddenly his lips are touching Malfoy’s, and that’s when it finally hits him. He’s been wanting this, yearning for this. Merlin, it feels like he’s been aching for this for ages — and maybe he has. Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is Malfoy’s mouth on his; those soft, pliant lips pressing tenderly against his own, tasting of honey, Darjeeling, and dizzying pure bliss.

Malfoy’s hands move along the waistband of Harry’s joggers, sneaking under the hem of his well-worn t-shirt to — _oh Godric_ — glide over his back. Harry gasps, unprepared for the shiver of pleasure running up his spine at the smooth touch of Malfoy’s fingertips against his skin. Malfoy hums contentedly as Harry’s lips part, and then the tip of his tongue is there, teasing, exploring, searching Harry’s mouth for its equal. When their tongues meet, something hot and potent flares to life in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

He’s kissed people before, of course he has, but while perfectly nice, none of those kisses was ever anything like this. Maybe it’s the starry sky that makes it different this time, or the exhilarating feeling of weightlessness. Maybe it’s both. As Harry tilts his head to deepen the kiss, though, he gets the feeling that’s not all it is. As he reaches up to bury his fingers in silky-soft hair, he’s slowly beginning to suspect it’s more to do with the owner of those intoxicating lips; that the person he’s kissing is _Malfoy_.

Harry clenches his fists, tugging at Malfoy’s blond locks, making him shudder. Malfoy groans into Harry’s mouth and pulls him closer, hot palms pressing against Harry’s back, fingers splayed wide over his hypersensitive skin. Through their clothes, Harry can feel Malfoy’s chest move against his, every shallow breath making Harry’s shirt fabric graze his hardened nipples and sending them tingling with anticipation. As their kiss grows hungrier, one of Malfoy’s hands moves lower, following the curve of Harry’s spine down to the small of his back.

A curious pinkie slips underneath his waistband and Harry moans, a low feral sound that stems from the pool of ever-growing arousal in his gut. Malfoy breaks their kiss to let out an answering growl, panting hot air over Harry’s skin as he trails sloppy wet kisses along Harry’s jaw and down his neck.

“Oh fuck…” Harry breathes.

He blinks his eyes open to take in the world around him. It’s surreal, all of it; the weightlessness, the twinkling stars, Malfoy. Malfoy’s hot tongue on his skin, Malfoy’s eager hands under his clothes, Malfoy’s hard cock against his hip.

Malfoy purrs and Harry moves on instinct, wrapping his legs around Malfoy’s body and transforming the purr into a delicious whimper with a slow thrust of his hips. Malfoy’s mouth moves along Harry’s collarbone, licking, sucking, nibbling — until it’s hindered by the collar of Harry’s t-shirt. With another growl, Malfoy draws back and tugs at the hem of Harry’s shirt, prompting Harry to sit up — or is it lie down? It all depends on the perspective, really — and shuck it off in one fluid motion.

Harry’s glasses get caught in the fabric, coming askew, and when Harry manages to replace them on his nose, he’s met with the mesmerising sight of Malfoy ogling him with dark, lust-blown eyes. Malfoy bites down on his kiss-swollen bottom lip, stifling a whine as his gaze roams Harry’s bare torso. Those ridiculously long golden lashes flutter from arousal and Harry can but stare at him. Malfoy’s face is flushed with colour. His hair is… it’s a fucking _mess_.

_I did that._

The thought has barely crossed Harry’s mind before his hands are on Malfoy’s fancy black shirt, untucking it from his posh trousers and working the buttons as fast as ten fumbling fingers are able to. His need for skin-on-skin contact has never been more urgent, and Malfoy must see it in his face because he covers Harry’s hands with his own, stopping them with a firm grip.

“Hey, take it easy,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”

His eyes are glittering, reflecting the light of a million stars, and his mouth is curved into an amused smirk. Harry shakes his head, reluctantly surrendering his hold on Malfoy’s shirt. Malfoy picks up where Harry left off, slowly unbuttoning the garment without ever breaking eye contact. Harry licks his lips, at the same time frustrated and madly turned on by Malfoy’s slow, sensual pace. Malfoy rolls his hips as if in slow motion, brushing his raging erection against Harry’s heavy balls, making Harry gasp. The undulating thrust sets Harry’s body in motion, though, and Harry has just enough time to gather his wits and tighten his legs’ hold around Malfoy before he is drifting away into the unknown.

“Sorry,” Malfoy snickers, “I didn’t mean to push you away.” He winks at Harry’s feigned scowl and unfastens the final button before reaching out and taking Harry into his arms. “Please stay,” he adds in a whisper.

His breath ghosts over Harry’s skin, making it tingle, and Harry groans as Malfoy catches his earlobe in his mouth. Harry’s hands find their way under the billowing fabric of Malfoy’s open shirt, finally able to touch the silky-smooth skin he’s been admiring for so long. Pulling Malfoy close, Harry grips his broad shoulders from behind, seeking leverage as he grinds his throbbing cock against Malfoy’s equally hard member. He buries his face in the curve of Malfoy’s neck, inhaling the heady scent of citrus and sandalwood, devouring the salty-sweet taste of Malfoy with eager lips, teeth, and tongue.

The wet sound of mouth against skin is soon accompanied by Malfoy’s panting breaths; his ragged inhales and quivering exhales, synchronised with the movements of their rolling hips and mixed with the most delectable little noises Harry’s ever heard. Malfoy tilts his head back and Harry kisses his way down Malfoy’s chest, flicking his tongue over Malfoy’s hardened nipple. As he sucks it into his mouth and grazes it with his teeth, Malfoy lets out a throaty moan that goes straight to Harry’s cock. One of Malfoy’s hands travels lower, plunging into Harry’s joggers to grab hold of Harry’s arse. Harry gasps, hips jerking enthusiastically at the touch, and then Malfoy’s other hand is in his hair, those manicured nails moving over his scalp, those long elegant fingers gripping his unruly curls, tugging.

With a groan, Harry lifts his head to meet Malfoy’s heated gaze and time seems to stand still as Harry drowns in fathomless pools of molten silver. For an endless second, the world stops in its tracks, holding its breath as they look into each other’s eyes. Their bodies, so frenzied just a moment ago, slow down to a standstill, their pulsing heat and beating hearts the only signs they’re still alive.

Eventually, a movement in Harry’s peripheral vision catches his eye, a slow swirling motion behind Malfoy’s head that almost resembles… _billowing fabric?_ Harry blinks, then marvels at the realisation as he recognises… _My t-shirt?_ The one he discarded ages ago, the one which should be lying in a heap on the floor somewhere if it weren’t for…

The reminder of where they are, of them actually floating weightless in the starry infinite space, rekindles the fervent desire in the pit of Harry’s stomach. Letting his instincts guide him, he lunges, capturing Malfoy’s hot wet mouth in a passionate kiss. Malfoy’s surprised gasp quickly turns into a rumbling growl as he responds to the onslaught, giving as good as he’s getting as they’re sent into a slow-moving rotation by Harry’s sudden pounce. With his legs still wrapped firmly around Malfoy’s hips, Harry thrusts against him, aided by Malfoy’s hand pressing him close, squeezing the taut muscles of his arse. The tranquil silence is chased away by a symphony of whimpers and groans, cries and moans, all perfectly pitched against a background of their ragged breaths and murmured words.

“Yes… So good… You’re so… Nnngh…”

“Oh fuck, I— Merlin, yes I… I need— Ahhh…”

Harry comes, tumbling over the edge into blissful ecstasy only moments before his lover. When Malfoy follows him, his orgasmic cry tastes like heaven. Harry devours it as if it were the most exclusive vintage of nectar, the sweetest brand of ambrosia.

They hold each other close, resting their foreheads on each other’s shoulders as they float through the dark, waiting for their racing hearts to slow down.


	7. Epilogue

* * *

_One year later_

* * *

The soft chime of a bell pulls Harry out of his concentration, alerting him to the fact that he has a visitor on their way down from the Atrium. Harry blinks in surprise. Not that he doesn’t know who it is — this visitor is expected. Awaited, even. Rather, Harry is struck by the realisation he seems to have lost track of time. Again.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised, seeing as this newly acquired character flaw has become a rather frequent topic for their domestic bickering lately. Yet, surprised he is. For some reason, he’d thought today would be different.

Because it _is_ different.

He hops down from his stool and gathers his things, not really wanting to call it a night but at the same time, eager to get out of here; to get out into the real world, maybe even catch the last rays of day before the sun sets.

That’s probably what he misses the most after moving down here; daylight, windows. But even without it, he wouldn’t trade this place for anything in the world. To think that, only one year ago, he still aspired to become an Auror; working the streets, fighting evil, risking his life on the daily. It’s hard to believe it now, but back then it was the only future he knew, the only thing he’d thought he would ever be good at. He never really contemplated any other options… until he found out about this place.

He completed his training, of course, despite his incipient doubts. He only had a few months left anyway, and Merlin knows he’s nothing if not a stubborn Gryffindor; concepts like giving up or dropping out have never held any prominent place in his vocabulary. He’d sat his exams too, graduating with flying colours, and it wasn’t until mid-summer he decided to decline his offered position in the force.

Harry rolls back his shoulders, taking a deep breath as he works out a kink in his neck. The air he inhales holds a rich flowery scent, drawing his eyes to the opulent bouquet he received this morning. Twelve long-stemmed red roses, one for each month they’ve been together. Knowing Draco — who is as fluent in the flower language as he is in English and French — they probably carry some deeper meaning too. But whatever they’re meant to say, Harry doesn’t need to hear the actual words, he can already feel them in his heart. He smiles, not even attempting to quell the swarm of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

Twelve months.

An entire year.

Whichever way Harry looks at it, it feels surreal.

On the one hand, it feels like a lifetime since Draco reentered his life, knocking on his door and upending his world as he knew it. It’s all but impossible, now, to recall what his life was like before; before Draco, before the Universe Hall. What would his life have been like now, if Draco hadn’t appeared on his doorstep that night? Would he have gone and become an Auror, fighting crime and hunting down dark wizards? Cursing over mountains of paperwork in the same way he often catches his old training mates doing in the canteen? Probably. Would he still have been single? Most likely. Immersing himself in his work to avoid doing anything about it? Definitely. It’s mind-boggling to think how much of his life has changed since then. How much Harry himself has changed.

Yes, on one hand, it truly feels like a lifetime. But on the other hand, it often feels like it was only yesterday they got together. Like now, when Draco walks through the door, smiling, his perfect platinum-blond hair and exquisitely chiselled features illuminated by a galaxy’s worth of twinkling starlight. Harry’s body has definitely missed out on the memo regarding their anniversary, because it still reacts like that of a smitten teenager every time Harry lays eyes on this man. Surely, a twenty-something man in a serious long-term relationship has no reason to swoon at the mere sight of his boyfriend. So why is his heart suddenly racing? Why are his knees going weak? Why does he forget how to breathe?

“Hi, sunshine,” Draco says, walking up to Harry and giving him a tea-flavoured kiss as he wraps his arms around Harry’s waist. “Hermione says hi. Wants to know if we’re still game for dinner on Friday.” Harry opens his mouth to answer but… “Why are you still in your work robes?”

“I—” The change of topic throws Harry off balance and his eyes flit to the untidy desk before he’s able to stop himself.

“Let me guess, you forgot to set an alarm and got lost in your research again?”

“No,” Harry blurts, just a tad too fast, fighting a blush. “I was just—”

Draco silences him with an amused smirk and a raised brow. “I swear, one of these days you’re going to forget you have a life outside of this place.”

“I won’t—”

“You know,” Draco continues, totally ignoring Harry’s attempt to defend himself, “Healer Wickerham says it’s highly improbable that a twenty-two-year-old would go senile. But since you’ve never been one to follow the rules, who knows? Maybe you’ll soon forget about me and Teddy too?”

“My two favourite boys? Never.” Harry reaches up to pull Draco’s head closer, playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck as he places a kiss on those pliant lips.

His diversion works like a charm. When Draco eventually draws back, he’s dazed enough to have to clear his throat before speaking. “So, um… how’s your day so far?”

“No reason to complain.” Harry shrugs, dropping his gaze to watch his hands glide over the silky fabric covering Draco’s chest, mapping out the firm muscle underneath. “Especially not now that you’re here.”

Draco smirks. “I know. I’m fabulous like that. Unlike some people…”

Draco feigns a haughty sneer, looking down his nose at Harry. A year ago, Harry may have been fooled by his antics, but now he knows better. He knows to detect the humour dancing in those bright silvery eyes, the amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“You poncy prat,” Harry admonishes. “You’re lucky I know your secret.”

Draco eyes narrow in suspicion. “What secret?”

“That you, underneath all that vain cockiness, are nothing but a sweet, cuddly kitten.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

Draco glowers, and Harry can't help but laugh at his scowl, raising his hand to tuck a lock of blond hair behind his boyfriend’s ear. Draco turns his head to kiss the inside of Harry’s wrist while cocking an eyebrow at him.

“So, when are you going to ask me how today went?”

“I…” _Oh fuck. That was today?_ Harry cringes inwardly. Maybe he _is_ going senile after all. “Er… Now?”

That earns him a slap on his arse. “You’re impossible. I have no idea how my aunt puts up with you all day every day.”

“Much the same way as you, I suppose. With a lot of patience and suffering.”

“Not nearly the same, though, since I’m also reaping some benefits from time to time.” Draco squeezes Harry’s arse with two strong hands to emphasise his point. Harry groans. Even a light brush of fabric against fabric between them is apparently enough to make Harry’s cock twitch. _Like a bloody teenager._ “At least, I really do hope you don’t offer Andromeda the same trea— _Ow!_ ”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry says, shaking the unwanted mental picture out of his head as fast as humanly possible. “Now, tell me about your meeting?”

Even if Draco always does his best to put up a confident front, Harry knows he’s been anxious about this meeting for weeks. For some reason, he can’t seem to shake the idea that people never will be able to look past the mark on his arm, to give him a chance. Not that Harry can blame him — he used to be one of those people too — but he wishes Draco didn’t have to live with that nagging self-doubt all the time. It was the same with his Healer Academy application last year. After sending it in, Draco had obsessed over it for ages, so much so that he’d all but accepted his defeat once the Acceptance Letter finally arrived.

The run-up to this meeting has been almost as bad. What was supposed to be a regular advisory meeting between mentor and mentee in preparation for next term has, in Draco’s head, turned into a time for ruthless critique and possibly even expulsion. It doesn’t matter that he’s the best student the institution has seen since Hermione Granger, nor that he’s aced every exam so far. In Draco’s mind, there’s always room for brutal rejection at every turn.

“I got it,” Draco beams, “I got Spell Damage.”

As if Harry didn’t already know Draco would be offered his first choice for specialisation. He knows how much this means to him, to be given the opportunity to help others who suffer from wicked curses like his own.

“There you go,” Harry manages, instead of the ‘I told you so’ that threatens to jump out of his mouth. He can be magnanimous like that when he wants to. “Congratulations, starlight. I’m so proud of you.”

“I should think so — you do have a brilliant boyfriend, after all.”

“That, I do,” Harry agrees before reaching up to kiss him again. He’s well aware magnanimity doesn’t come as easy for everyone, and for some reason, he doesn’t mind it much when it comes to Draco. “And what about your research? Did you get the go-ahead for our idea?”

“I did. I have no idea how, but I did.” Draco gives him one of those rare open smiles that have a tendency to render Harry breathless. Merlin, but his eyes are beautiful when he’s happy like this, all sparkling with joy. Just the sight of them makes Harry’s heart beat faster.

Honestly, Harry can hardly believe it himself, that in just a few months, they’ll be able to start the research they’ve been drafting for so long. A joint project, for the first time combining Spell Damage Healing and Astronomy in the search for a Lycanthropy cure. All previously known attempts have been made within the Healing field, sometimes by Spell Damage specialists, but mainly by the Serious Bites collegium in collaboration with the Ministry’s Magical Creatures department.

Harry is sure about their case, though. The key to the cure is hidden somewhere between the curse and its connection to the moon. He just knows it. And between them, they’re going to find it.

Draco waits patiently — as patiently as a Malfoy is able to, that is, which isn’t all that much — while Harry changes out of his work robes and freshens up for their anniversary dinner date. On the spur of the moment, Draco makes a valiant attempt to tame Harry’s hair, something he hasn’t bothered doing since New Year’s. And even if Harry rolls his eyes at Draco’s mutterings of _ridiculous_ and _atrocious_ and _Sweet Salazar, give me strength_ as the man works on his unruly locks, he is secretly savouring the attention and care Draco gives him.

“There,” Draco states eventually, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “Much better.”

“Really?” After twenty minutes of hair-tugging and spell-casting, combs, and brushes, and potions, and Merlin knows what, Harry’s scalp feels sensitive enough to have suffered a third-degree sunburn. He makes a move to touch his hair, just to get a feel of what it looks like, but Draco pointedly clears his throat, stopping him just in the nick of time. Instead, Draco conjures a mirror, showing Harry the image of a man he can barely recognise, hair all shiny and gorgeous, slicked back in a neat ponytail and tied up with an emerald silk ribbon at the nape of his neck. “It’s…”

“Wrong.”

Harry looks up, surprised, finding Draco with a deep crease between his brows. “That’s not what I—”

“It’s wrong,” Draco says again, cutting him off while whisking the mirror back into nothingness with a casual flick of his wrist. He steps closer and reaches around to pull the ribbon out of Harry’s hair. Stunned, Harry watches him purse his lips in concentration and fights back a tremor of pleasure at the sensation of Draco’s fingers running through his locks, ruffling them up and undoing all his efforts within moments.

“What’s wrong?” Harry can’t help asking, because he has no fucking idea what’s going on and he’s starting to get a little worried. “I thought it looked…”

“…perfect,” Draco says. “It looked perfect.” He seems startled by his own words; as if he were just as confused by them as Harry is. “Now, though…” Draco pulls back again, tilting his head to the side before nodding decisively. “Now you look like you.”

Harry frowns. “As in ‘not perfect’?”

“As in ‘perfect just the way you are’, sunshine.”

The warmth pooling in Harry’s chest has nothing to do with the heated kiss they share, nor with the assured hands resting at the small of his back.

“So, a whole year, huh?” Harry murmurs against Draco’s lips. “Who would have thought?”

Draco huffs a quiet laugh. “Not I, that’s for sure.”

“Any regrets?”

“No,” Draco mumbles between soft feather-light kisses. “No regrets.”

* * *

Infinite love.

Endless affection, stretching over the realms of time and space.

That’s what they convey, the dozen roses I sent him this morning.

I’m terrified to say the words out loud, to let him know, to ask him to be forever mine, but…

Maybe this will be the day that I do.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I love and cherish any and all feedback you’re willing to give me — kudos, comments and recommendations are my primary life sources.
> 
> For more interaction, please find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drarrelie)
> 
> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Magic anthology](/series/1900732), a series of Drarry fics inspired by Hogwarts’ seven core subjects.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/2Qx1l1Y); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.


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